


all roads lead to space

by asgardiun



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Space, Astronauts, Explicit Language, Getting Together, M/M, Military Backstory, Mutual Pining, astronaut!eddie, mission control!buck, so many space and military inaccuracies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25028752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asgardiun/pseuds/asgardiun
Summary: Eddie always loved the stars. He could see them much clearer from the International Space Station. But his crew is always arguing, he misses his kid, and he can’t stop thinking about Buck, the man from mission control who somehow managed to ease his anxieties from 400km away.(it’s a six month mission, what’s the worst that could happen?)
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Comments: 172
Kudos: 123





	1. Explore Space!

**Author's Note:**

> based on a single tumblr post of mine that somehow got way out of hand.

Eddie always loved the stars. 

Loved them enough to read every space exploration book at the library as a kid. Loved them enough to write essays dedicated to the sky. Loved them enough to take a brochure at career day that read ‘ _Explore Space!’,_ and promise himself that one day he’d see them up close. A promise so strong that it kept him up at night, staring out the window, waiting for a future he so badly needed.

 _Soon,_ he promised. _‘Explore Space!’,_ he remembered. He held onto that brochure, kept it close. Hung it on the wall above his desk, read the words everyday. A dream, a hope. A promise to himself.

 _“Really?”_ his parents asked, _“You know, it’s not easy to be an astronaut…”_

Of course it’s not easy. He did the research in high school, determined to pull his dream within reach. A four year degree and a professional degree. Then three years of ‘relevant experience’, plus two years of training, assuming he’s chosen as a candidate (“ _join the military,”_ every pamphlet seemed to whisper, _“NASA loves military pilots.”_ It’s like they were taunting him). 

_“Don’t listen to them,”_ Adriana reassured. 

_“You’d be good at it,”_ Sophia hesitantly complimented. 

It’s a lot to handle. A lot of time and school and training, which leads to a lot of receipts and loans and debts he could never pay. It’s brutal. To want something so bad, but have it dangling just out of reach. To see the possibility glaring at the end of the road and know that it will always be just that. A possibility. Barely out of reach, almost a reality, but never quite true. 

That’s when the vultures began to prey. 

_“Are you interested in joining the United States Armed Forces?”_

Military recruiters. They’d scout out the high schools, searching for any able-bodied candidate they could find, preying on kids who had nowhere else to turn.

_“There’s plenty of benefits for you and your family–”_

Including, but not limited to: redacted letters from your loved one overseas, nightmares that will settle deep in your skull, and bullet holes that will never quite heal. All for the low, low price of–

_“–We’ll pay for your college tuition.”_

Of course that line always turned heads. Even Eddie perked at the offer. But he could never take it. It’s blood money, and he didn’t want it. Tempting, but no. No piece of paper, no cap and gown, is worth someone else’s life.

Eddie wanted to help people, not hurt them. Science, space exploration, it’s all about the pursuit of knowledge. Pushing mankind forward, not yanking them backwards onto the battlefield. 

_“I’m not interested,”_ he replied. Every single time.

Physically, sure, he could do it. He’s tall, mostly muscular, with no underlying health conditions. The perfect candidate to go to war. Or the perfect candidate to go to space. Eddie met every medical requirement. He could do it. Find a way. 

Eddie graduated high school, and the vultures stopped swarming. He attended a community college and started taking physics classes (turns out, stars are complicated. Still, he had made it this far). Classes weren’t easy, but they were manageable. He could learn, he could go somewhere. With every lecture, the stars pulled closer, still out of reach but finally in sight. He might actually be able to—

_“—Are you interested in joining the United States Armed Forces?”_

So close. The recruiters didn’t disappear after high school, unfortunately. There was a constant military presence lingering over his head. Recruiters, ROTC kids, and the pamphlets he politely recycled behind their backs. The angel on one shoulder told him to go to grad school, and the devil perched on the other, whispering, _“NASA loves military pilots (it’s cheaper than a masters degree).”_

Space, not war. Stars, not gunfire. 

He could ignore them. Move quietly through classes and return home at the end of the day. Say no, smile, and move forward. It’s not like he had to see them every day… right?

 _“You know it’s not easy to be an astronaut…”_ the words rang in his head. But Eddie had a plan, he always did. Graduate, apply to grad school, get accepted, find a scholarship, apply to work at NASA. Five steps, easy enough. 

Easy until…

_“Hi, I’m Shannon.”_

A field of vultures, and she stood unfazed in the middle of it all. The only smile that seemed to be true, the only one not trying to sell something he didn’t want. A yellow dress in the sea of camo-green, leaning against a table of flyers and pamphlets and lies. She caught his eye, and he held onto hers. 

_“You don’t seem like the military type,”_ he noted.

_“Neither do you.”_

Not a student, he learned. Not a recruiter, either. Just a sibling, helping her brother because she had nothing better to do. Intriguing, she was. Standing so self-assured, not letting a single teasing remark stick. Vultures glared at Eddie, but he kept his gaze on Shannon, borrowing an ounce of her confidence. 

She asked him out before he had the chance to ask her, ignoring the “ _oooh’s”_ and “ _get some!”_ of her brother’s friends. Not part of his plan, but a welcome distraction. How could he say no to the woman with more gusto than every soldier surrounding her?

One cup of coffee turned to three, and occasional texts from class turned into daily phone calls on his way home. All his free time, he gave to her, yet he still knew more about her brother than he did about her. She would pick and choose the details of her life, which to keep and which to divulge, whereas Eddie played his whole hand, letting Shannon see every part of himself. He trusted her, for no reason in particular. He laid out his ambitions, and she only nodded in return. But he was comfortable. Shannon gave him something to come home to; he spent more time in her apartment than his own house. His last year of college, and he spent it all with her. 

He had his plan, a neat list of five steps to carry him through life. Shannon wasn’t part of that plan, but he could try and make room. Step one: graduate college. One more month, and he’d have his degree, tangible proof that he could follow through. Step two: apply to grad school. Confusing and messy and filled with questions he only half understood, but he could manage. He always found a way to manage. 

Five steps. Five baby steps followed by one giant leap for mankind. One month and he’d—

_“—Are you interested in joining the United States Armed Forces?”_

_Oh, fuck off,_ he wanted to scream. So close. He had to admire their determination, but he was just as determined. What could they possibly offer at this point? What sales tactic could they possibly try? His response was practiced, trained. _No._ The answer is always no. Because in no _universe_ would Eddie ever willingly join—

_“—I’m pregnant.”_

Oh.

_Oh._

Eddie always loved the stars. So he finally followed them. 

All the way to Afghanistan, betraying every promise he ever made to himself. Airman Eddie Diaz gave himself away and let the Air Force take him wherever they please. 

Shannon was livid (understandably). _Impulsive_ , she called him, _stupid and reckless._ She understood the system more than most; her brother had fallen for the same trap, but convinced himself he loved the force. Eddie always hated the military, tried to avoid it at all costs. 

He didn’t leave Shannon. He left _for_ Shannon and their baby. He could send them every paycheck and benefit he had to offer. They would be okay without him. 

_“NASA loves military pilots…”_

_God,_ he hated it. Hated himself; still thinking of his own damn future and convincing himself it was for Shannon (he wouldn’t even _be_ a pilot for fucks sake, at most he’d get promoted to Sergeant).

 _“I’ll be back,”_ he promised.

_“It’ll be too late.”_

His plans changed. So he made a new one. Go to college, fight a war, explore space (more or less). Learn to be a dad somewhere along the way. _Leave them behind,_ he left unwritten, _consider coming home (it’ll be too late)._

Sixteen weeks of basic training and nine weeks shacked in some Air Force base in Alabama. _“Three years of relevant experience,”_ read every brochure he encountered. Two tours, three years of experience, one job application. 

Eddie considered proposing. That’s what you do when you have a baby, you get married and start a family. But the idea died before he could really process the thought. It didn’t sit right, and part of him knew it would end too soon. A bigger part of him was half-sure she’d say no, anyways.

He apologized again and again. Every spare moment was spent calling home, reassuring Shannon that everything would work out (he didn’t know if it would; that’s a promise he wasn't ready to make). But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. 

Christopher was born. Eddie wasn’t there. His first tour ended nine months later and for the first time, Eddie met his son. He barely held him, scared to hurt him more than he already had. The military taught him to shoot and fly and throw a good punch in desperate times. College taught him to ask questions and write essays about books he barely read. His sisters taught him how to braid hair and avoid their parent's stern gaze. No one taught him how to be a dad. 

Eddie wanted to hold him close and teach him everything he knew. He wanted Chris to have a good life. He didn’t want to leave.

But he was already gone. Eighteen more months. A stiff salute in one hand, his St. Christopher medal in the other, clanking against his dog tags.

In El Paso, the lights were too bright to ever see the stars properly. Afghanistan was darker, the lights much more muted. At night he could look up and see every constellation, every star, clouds dancing between the distant lights. His crew made fun of him for staring oh so lovingly at the sky; _“you look at your wife like that too?”_

 _“She’s not my wife,”_ he panned, still staring up. Maybe she could see them too. Or maybe she was too busy looking down, caring for _their_ child. Fixing _his_ mistakes.

 _“Well, that’s certainly true now, my friend.”_ She would never forgive him for leaving, and he dreaded the day he’d come home to her rage. Fighting a war is easy. It’s a series of protocols and orders. In war, there’s always an answer. But coming home hurts. It’s regret and shame and scars that will never heal right. 

His last mission was meant to be a rescue. To bring a wounded soldier home. Nothing they hadn't done thousands of times before. So of course everything went to hell. The one person he was supposed to save bled out before he had the chance to tend to him. He had a family, a real one who needed him to come home, and Eddie let him die. 

Three gunshot wounds later, and somehow Eddie’s the hero; Staff Sergeant Diaz and his shining silver star. Looking at it made him nauseous. A symbol of heroism, and he wanted nothing more than to let it drown. Burn it, bury it, hurl it into the sea. Chris said it was cool. His parents said they were proud. Shannon said nothing at all (he feared her silence more than he feared her rage). 

No words could make up for his absence. A thousand apologies meant nothing. He wasn’t there, he wasn’t enough. No dream was worth all this sacrifice. Go to college, fight a war, explore space. 

_Go to college, leave your family, fight a war. Fight a war, come home, never leave again._

That soldier had a family. He wouldn’t have left them behind. 

_‘Explore Space!’_ the brochure read, still hanging on the wall of his childhood bedroom. He ripped it from the cork board and let it fall to the floor. 

Eddie always loved the stars. But he couldn’t leave Chris. Not again.

So Eddie stayed. He needed to stay. Somewhere along the line, Shannon left. He’s a hypocrite for being angry and a terrible person for being a little glad they never got married. 

_“You're such a downer,”_ Adriana said. She and Sophia came to El Paso to surprise Chris for his birthday. _“Your sadness is making me sad. It’s making him sad too.”_ She nodded towards Chris.

 _“Did he say something to you?”_ As much as he wanted to deny his feelings, he couldn’t. Not if it was hurting Chris.

 _“No. But kids are perceptive,”_ she tried to level with him. “ _You’ve been stuck in El Paso for years. At some point, you need to move forward. Or at least move out of our parent’s house.”_

He frowned. “I _can’t leave him. Not again,”_ he said, unmoving. 

_“How do you think he’ll feel when he grows up and finds out you gave up your dream because of him? Eddie, I’m not telling you to leave him,”_ she rested a hand on his shoulder, _“I’m telling you to bring him with you.”_

He stood still, his head stuck to Adriana’s words. He wanted to do what was best for Chris. Jumping between jobs, trying to make ends meet, did more harm than good. He was at work more than he was at home, yet he managed to convince himself it was better for their family. Chris needed stability, something constant in his life. And Eddie needed to leave El Paso. 

He watched Sophia stack Legos with Chris. Adriana watched Eddie as he considered his options. 

_“If you think any harder, your head might explode,”_ she laughed. _“Stop trying to make a plan. Stop thinking. Just tell me, what do_ you _want.”_

Go to college, fight a war, explore space. One job application. Just one more step. Chris smiled up at him, and for the first time in months he felt content. An idea that was once so distant finally fell within reach. No plans, no hesitations. 

_“I want to go to Houston.”_

_For Chris,_ he reassured himself, and this time he believed it. Everything he did, he did for Chris. 

The next day he applied to be an astronaut. Two weeks later, and he was accepted, set to begin training at the Johnson Space Center in Houston.

 _“I was thinking of going on a trip. How would you like to come with me?”_ he offered Chris. Adriana and Sophia lived together just outside of the city and they offered to let Eddie and Chris stay with them (with the added bonus of free babysitting from his sisters). 

_“Together?”_ Chris was practically beaming. It broke Eddie’s heart to see how the simplest gesture brought so much joy. He never wanted Chris to doubt him again, never wanted him to think that at any moment, his dad might leave and never come home. 

_“Together.”_


	2. The Vomit Comet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks away, opting to stare at the horizon, “Why did you bring me here?”
> 
> “Because you have a big decision to make,” she steps in front of him, “and I wanted you to be honest with your choice.”

Training for war and training for space travel are two very different things. 

War is harsh and painful and bloody. Shoot first, and never ask questions. Kill or be killed, the rule of beasts. Those in charge are willing to leave bodies behind in the pursuit of destruction. There is no knowledge in war, no thinking, no healing. 

The space center teaches, it does not belittle. Commanders are strict, but obvious in their kindness, invested in the survival of their candidates, ruling with grace. Science classes, first aid, public speaking. No shooting, and an endless wave of questions with infinite leaders willing to answer them. Emergency preparedness, survival training. 

There’s communication and peace. The International Space Station is not some all ruling American territory. Eddie can speak Russian now. Sort of (Russian astronauts would definitely have a laugh over his terrible accent). 

War doesn’t have friction-less work spaces and zero gravity chambers and swimming pools. There’s no simulations or underwater ‘space walks’ (on his seventh hour underwater, Eddie began to understand why there are so few astronauts). And war definitely doesn’t have the ‘Weightless Wonder’, also known as—

“—did she just?” Eddie asks. “Did she call it—”

“—the Vomit Comet? Yeah, pretty sure she did.” Tommy says. 

“We like to save it for the end of training,” their commander says, “that way only our  _ serious  _ candidates can have the fun. We call it that because even our most experienced astronauts get sick in there.”

Eddie has known Athena for nearly two years, and he still couldn’t grasp her idea of ‘fun’. In this case, ‘fun’ is a zero gravity chamber that sends even the most experienced astronauts into a fit of nausea. She’s good at her job, training dozens of astronaut candidates and congratulating them once they finish their training and officially become astronauts _(“_ _ you’re not an astronaut until I decide you are, Kinard, and I’m more than willing to replace you” ),  _ but Eddie still couldn’t tell if she liked him or not. Everyone else is easy to read, all the candidates being relatively friendly, or at least offering a smile to ensure there’s no bad blood. They  _ have  _ to like each other. Tolerate each other, at least, or risk passing months in space surrounded by enemies. 

The lack of competition surprised Eddie at first. In the military, soldiers were always at arms with each other;  _ “I bet I could shoot farther than you,”  _ or,  _ “ _ _ You think you’re faster? Prove it.” _ At the space center, candidates were willing to help each other. For nothing in return. Tommy taught him the Cyrillic alphabet, Sal spotted him at the gym, and Ali showed him a trick for tying a tighter tourniquet. Eddie hesitated every time they offered a hand, anticipating the moment the hand would suddenly pull away and laugh, mock him for even attempting to grab on. But their offerings never wavered, and Eddie slowly learned to trust their grip. 

But training together doesn’t mean they’ll be on mission together. Mission commanders mix the groups, sending newbies and veterans together in the same ship, hoping they’ll learn from each other. Almost two years of training together made Eddie enjoy Tommy, Sal, and Ali’s company, and his stomach twisted at the idea of learning to trust a whole new crew. 

The lovingly nicknamed ‘Vomit Comet’ did not help to ease his dread. True to its namesake, three people had to step out early, and Eddie felt that old military competitiveness arise when he managed to outlast Tommy (even though he himself threw up into a trash can the moment Tommy stepped out of sight).

“Oh,  _ this  _ is amazing.” Ali laughs at the sight of all the tough-guy boys trying to keep their lunches down. Sal ducks his head between his knees, groaning from his seat.

“How are you  _ not  _ sick,” he asks, sitting up slightly. 

“How do you know I’m not?” she smiles, taking a drink from her water bottle, “Maybe I’m just better at holding back.”

“You went in there twice. And didn’t throw up.  _ Twice _ .”

“You learned to count? Impressive,” Ali teases. Eddie joins her laughter and notices Tommy re-enter the room.

“Don’t act so high and mighty, Diaz.” Sal sits up slightly, pointing at the duo, “you threw up more than I did.”

He scrunches his brow, inhaling sharply, “Yeah, but I haven’t spent the last ten minutes complaining,” Eddie grins, satisfied with his own mocking. Sal lets out another dramatic huff before standing, leaning slightly against Tommy. He closes his eyes, admitting defeat. 

“Trust me, you’ll get used to it.” Athena taps her clipboard against the table. “Being thrown around in that thing for 30 seconds is  _ very  _ different from living in space. You’ll have more time to adjust up there,” she says, gesturing up. The papers in her hand shuffle as the clipboard shifts from one arm to the other. 

“ _ If  _ he ever gets up there,” Ali mumbles to Eddie before Sal flips both of them off. 

“Oh, I have faith you’ll all get there in time. Some of you sooner than others,” she threw a glance towards the bathroom where three recruits still leaned against the wall, before looking back to Eddie, only for a moment, but long enough for him to notice. “Your last week of training here won’t be with me. You’ve all been requested by different departments for different jobs.” She unclips a stack of papers from her clipboard and starts passing them out accordingly. “Your last week of training will be specialized for whatever job you’ve been assigned.”

Silence settles across the room while everyone reads their assignments. Athena pauses in front of him, a thick packet remaining on her clipboard. But she looks to him, without moving. He evens his breathing, trying not to overthink. 

“Walk with me.”

He nods, glancing over to Ali who’s still intensely scanning her page for details, pacing slowly. She’s too focused to notice Eddie leaving the room with Athena, stepping away from the bright fluorescents of the warehouse and into the soft afternoon heat. Everyone inside knew where they were heading, a single page leading them to their momentary future. All Eddie has is a racing heart and Athena’s voice, hopefully pulling him in the right direction.

She stops walking; it takes a moment for Eddie to realize this and pause besides her. They’re in the parking lot, half vacant. With nothing to lean on, he stands tall, chin up. 

Athena laughs, “At ease, Diaz,” and Eddie feels his shoulders instantly fall at the command. This isn’t war, this isn’t a line up, but old habits die hard. “No need to be so tense.”

He looks away, opting to stare at the horizon, “Why did you bring me here?”

“Because you have a big decision to make,” she steps in front of him, “and I wanted you to be honest with your choice.”

Athena offers him the clipboard and the many pages it holds. He doesn’t look down, doesn’t dare to read the words, but they feel heavy in his hands.

“It usually takes a long time to go from being an astronaut, to  _ actually  _ being an astronaut.” She shifts her footing before continuing, “I need you to know you’re a rare case.”

Athena was always blunt. Never holding back when she needed to speak up. But for the first time, Eddie can see her hesitating, carefully piecing this conversation together in her head. The right words seem lost to her. She stands relaxed, but her head is turning. 

“Athena—”

“—Just let me finish,” she says. “A crew is being sent to the International Space Station next week. They’ve been training together for the past month preparing for this mission. But their fourth member is, unfortunately, unable to make the trip.” Eddie follows the conversation, but he’s afraid to bound towards any conclusions. He cuts off any questions in his head, giving her the liberty to speak.

“You’ve been recruited. Mission commander requested you, specifically.”

It’s a shame he can’t see the stars from here. He’d always hoped they’d be cheering him on.  _‘Explore Space!’_ read the single page pamphlet on his wall, and here he is, about to make it a reality. An unfamiliar sense of security washes over him, followed by the immediate sense of doubt. He’s here, outside the warehouse, for a reason, when he should’ve received his assignment inside like everyone else.

“You said I had a decision to make. I’m not really seeing my choices.” He’s been recruited, that’s his assignment. The commander requested it, there’s no choice. He’s received his orders, so he’ll follow.

“You can go. Or you can stay,” she says. “Though I’ve never met an astronaut who didn’t want to go to space.” 

And he wants to go. More than anything, he wants to go. It’s the only thing he was ever certain of. Until Shannon. Until Chris. Now there’s uncertainty hanging over his head and a choice he never thought he’d have to make.

“Take that packet home and get back to me tomorrow. Eddie,” she reaches out to pat his shoulder, “you  _ do  _ have a choice here. And don’t think this’ll be your only chance, either.” Athena walks away, but the packet in his hands anchors him in place. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, but he dreads the decision anyways. 

The Young Eddie who dreamed of seeing the stars, would pull at his hand and beg him to say yes. That kid, filled with endless hope, would point to the skies with never ending wonder. 

High School Eddie poured hours of research into this idea, this fantasy of going beyond. He would smack the doubt out of Eddie’s head and make the easy choice for him. 

College Eddie was different, he was realistic. No more fantasies and unreachable dreams. Recruiters on one shoulder, and a family he didn’t plan for on the other. But in his hands he held a physics degree and an enlistment form. 

Air Force Eddie ran away. He didn’t fight a war because he was brave, he fought because he was scared of what he was coming home to; a girlfriend who no longer loved him like she used to, and a kid he couldn’t bear to disappoint. Air Force Eddie stared at the stars, and accepted their distance. The stars watched him kill; their gaze burns. 

Somewhere in the bridge between now and then lived a different Eddie. The dad who didn’t know how to do right by his kid, the soldier who worked three jobs to stay afloat, the man who left a part of himself in Afghanistan and never fully returned. 

Now there’s Astronaut Eddie who fought for a goal, and felt guilty for reaching it. 

He finally allows himself to look down at the packet, and laughs at the cruel irony of it all.

_ “International Space Station Expedition 64: The Vulture Program” _

_____________

He sits in his truck for a long time after coming home. And when he finally finds the footing to pull himself to the front porch, he stands there, unable to take the last step inside.

“Hey space-man,” Sophia opens the door before he has a chance to turn his key. “Did you forget how to open the door. Or what?”

“You’ve gotta stop calling me that,” he ignores the question and steps inside.

“Oh, so first you reject space-boy, now I can’t call you space-man either. What else am I supposed to call you?”

“My name?” 

“You’re no fun,” she says, following him further inside. “Something’s wrong. I can tell. Spill.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” He drops the packet on the dining table before passing into the kitchen. Sophia stops to hover over the papers, flipping through the first few pages. 

“You’re going to space?”

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. 

“What do you mean? You’re obviously going,” she says, dropping the packet back on the table, crossing her arms. “ _ Eddie ,  _ you’re not seriously considering saying no, are you?”

He refuses to meet her gaze. Instead he stares at the words “ _ Vulture Program ”  _ and tries to find his answer. He sees Chris’s report card scattered among the papers, and forces himself to not think too deeply about it. 

“If you asked me ten years ago I would’ve said yes. Without question. But now…” Eddie trails off. He looks up at the fridge and sees a drawing from Chris of the two of them with Sophia and Adriana. On the counter are the scattered crayons he used to draw it. Glue marks stain the table from Chris’s science fair project, and a photo of the two of them hangs on the wall. Pieces of his family fill the house to the brim; ten years ago he only had to think of himself. 

“I can’t leave. Not again.” He couldn’t stand another goodbye.

“It’s not like you’re leaving forever,” she reassures. Sophia moves towards him, placing a hand on both shoulders. “You’ve always wanted this. And when you’re ready, you’ll come home. Don’t tell me you put all that work in just to say no at the last minute?”

“I can’t—”

“—Stop, okay? You’re going to space. No more arguing.” She tightens her grip, refocusing Eddie’s attention. “Just this once, listen to me when I tell you what to do.”

The unmistakable sound of crutches clicks down the hallway. But when he turns to the door, Chris is nowhere in sight. He hears the sound move steadily, growing quieter, until it disappears altogether, followed by squeaking door hinges and the click of a handle. Eddie holds his face in his hands, mad at himself for not noticing Chris sooner. 

He shrugs out of Sophia’s grasp, following Chris to his bedroom. Three knocks at the door, and he slowly turned the handle, leaning inside the room. 

“Chris? What’s—” Eddie freezes when he realizes what’s in his hands. “Where’d you find that?”

Chris tightens his grip on the small blue box in his hands. Eddie tried everything to rid himself of its contents, but the Silver Star always found its way back to him. Streaks in the dust traced the sides and fingerprints left indents along the top; the matching certificate lays abandoned on the bed. 

“You threw it in your closet when we moved here. But Sophia took it when you weren’t looking. I don’t think she knows I saw her do that.”

“And did you take it from Sophia?”

He nods. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, kid. Sophia shouldn’t have taken it in the first place.” He should’ve known his sisters would go searching for it. They would scoft whenever he avoided the subject, and cling to any details about the war they managed to pry from him. Well intended, but not exactly welcomed. “Just ask next time, okay?”

“Okay,” he mumbles, avoiding his dad’s gaze, tracing the medal with his fingers.

“What’s going on? Hey,” Eddie sits on the bed and drops a hand to Chris’s shoulder, reaching for his attention. He looks up to Eddie, sadness wiped across his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I miss you,” Chris says, like it’s obvious, voice wobbling, but only slightly.  _ I miss you,  _ present tense. As if he’s here, but hanging out of reach. Home, but still too far to be anything of use. “I heard you and Sophia talking. I heard you come home, and I wanted to say hi, but you were talking and it sounded really important.” Eddie moves circles into Chris’s arm, listening to every word. “You  _ have  _ to go to space because space is really cool and you really want to go, but I don’t want you to leave again.”

Eddie breathes in, searching for a way to comfort Chris, but he can barely comfort himself and every affirmation dancing on his tongue sounds reminiscent of a lie. 

“I don’t want to leave you either.” More than anything, he wants to promise he’ll never leave again. To promise Chris he will come home, without a doubt. He’ll always fight to come home, but nothing is guaranteed, and Eddie would never risk breaking a promise. “I miss you every day.”

Eddie shifts forward into a hug. It’s as close to a promise as he can get. Holding Chris is safe and comforting; he clings to the feeling as long as he can knowing he’ll only get so many chances before he leaves again. The Silver Star presses into his back, still being held in Chris’s hands. It’s the only time that medal will ever bring him any comfort. 

He forces himself to pull away. Eddie watches Chris, but Chris still stares at the star.

“Why don’t you ever wear it?” Chris fumbles with the small blue box. The leather is scratched and dusty, having been abandoned for so long.

“I don't really wear jewelry.” 

The silver is just as shining as the day it was given to him. Eddie considers taking the box back, wanting this moment to be between them, not between a medal he never wanted, but Christopher is so enamored by the pin he can’t bear to pull it away.

Chris considers Eddie’s answer and scrunches his nose. “But what about that?” he asks, pointing to the chain around Eddie’s neck, barely visible from under his shirt. He smiles slightly before lightly tugging the necklace over his head and offering it to his son. 

“Your mom gave me this.” The pendant twists before falling into Chris’s hand. “To remind me of you when I was gone.”

“Oh,” he says, staring at the charm. “But what about your other necklace?”

“What necklace?”

“The one with the tags. You were wearing it when you first came home. I remember.” Chris was so young when Eddie finished his last tour; he’s surprised Chris recalls such a detail. 

Eddie sighs, but only just. Two tokens of war Chris couldn’t seem to forget. He stands, walking to his room across the hall. He reaches for his nightstand, sifting through its contents. At the bottom of the drawer, tangled between random cords and junk, he finds the chain and returns to Chris’s bed. He takes back the St. Christopher medal from Chris and lets the new chain clink in his hand. 

“These are my dog tags. I had to wear them while I was…”  _ f ighting a war, hiding out, taking lives  _ “...away.”

He reads the tags closely, tracing the words with his fingers, “Why are there two of them?”

Eddie holds his hand out as Chris returns the chain. “One goes around your neck,” he holds up the first tag, “the other goes in your shoe,” he lets the second tag collide with the first and fall back into Chris’s palm. 

Chris smiles, the idea of putting jewelry in one’s shoe hilarious in the mind of an eight year old. The reasons for wearing dog tags are much more grim than Eddie is willing to let on. He watches his son admire the tags with a fondness Eddie was never able to muster. The chain was always heavy around Eddie’s neck, reminding him of everything he left behind, and all that he has to lose. It’s a branding, forcing a connection to a life he never wanted. But to Chris, it’s a token. A charm. A souvenir for something he doesn’t quite understand, and a reminder of the father he thought would never come home. Chris carries them with a different kind of weight, as if the mass is not a burden, but an emblem.

“We wear the tags so we can find each other when we get… lost.” How does one explain war to the kid who holds nothing but smiles and wonder? That these tags are for dead bodies, for soldiers so mutilated they’re unrecognizable, even to the loved ones they promised to return to.

“Y’know, how the first day of school, your teachers have you make name tags for your desk? And you keep the name tags, even after your teachers learn your name?” Chris nods at the analogy, but even Eddie doesn’t know where the words are taking him. “It’s sorta like that. We wear dog tags so we know how to identify each other.”

“Maybe you should wear them again,” he says, offering the chain back to Eddie, “in case you get lost.”

The sentiment carries a soft, distant smile to his face. He can feel Chris’s fondness radiating from his hands, as he gently places the dog tags into Eddie’s. 

Never has such a cruel thing been cared for so kindly before.

“How ‘bout this,” Eddie unclasps the silver chain, letting the first tag slide off the end. He reattaches the chain, now only carrying one pendant. His hands find his St. Christopher charm, laying forgotten besides his Silver Star on the bed. The second chain opens easily, the dog tag sliding on to meet the pendant in the middle. 

“I’ll wear this one,” he raises the pendant and the dog tag, now dangling from the same chain, up to Chris, “and you can keep this one.” He lifts the second necklace, now holding only one dog tag. The weight falls easily around Chris’s neck as he moves his hands to fumble with the tag. His eyes widen with excitement at the idea of carrying a pendant of his own.

“Is this the one you kept in your shoe?” he scrunches his nose. Eddie laughs, borrowing some of his son’s joy. He drapes his own chain over his head, letting the pendants fall freely.

“No, I’ll keep the shoe tag. In case I get lost,” he repeats Chris’s words, realizing he made his decision. Chris, the only constant he’s ever had, made the decision for him.  _ You have to go to space ,  _ Chris decided, and the doubt hanging over Eddie’s head began to recede. The guilt, although present, was no longer debilitating. 

“Promise?” 

Eddie hesitates, scared of breaking something so sacred. But Chris beams up at him with hope in his cheeks and all the stars in his eyes and for once, Eddie trusts himself to take such a risk. 

“I Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr @maysgrant for updates on this story


	3. The Vulture Program

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Vulture Program: created to prepare the United States for future Mars missions. Eddie and his crew are just a part of phase one, traveling to the International Space Station to test equipment (and make repairs. They’re the guinea pigs, it seems). 
> 
> Six days. Six days and Eddie’s gone. But for now he’s in the parking lot of the Johnson Space Center, trying to hold himself together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr @maysgrant

Eddie refuses to take the chain off his neck. It presses to his skin when he wakes up, leaving a warm indent on his chest just above the heart. The soft ringing of the metal remains constant as he packs Chris a lunch and kisses him goodbye at school. He wants to stay, wants to cook breakfast for his family every morning, and drive his kid to school. He wants to be there to pick him up and smile at every story. He wants to help him with his math homework and comfort him after every bad day. 

Chris deserves better than video chats and spotty phone calls and a dog tag around his neck. He’s too young to be filled with doubt, smiling through the distance yet still wondering if every phone call home will be the last. 

Six days. He leaves in six days with a team he hasn’t even met. He’ll fly to a country he can barely pronounce before jettisoning off, away from Earth, away from every problem, away from all that he loves. 

He spends every spare second with Chris, wanting his son to have something to remember before Eddie leaves for the next six months. He’ll miss his birthday, the last day of school, and countless moments that can never be repeated. But he can have this. He can have this. A day at the park, animated movie nights, and a kiss goodnight.

(Eddie already stashed a birthday present under Adriana’s bed and a series of videos stored on her phone.)

Athena was thrilled to learn he accepted the offer. She sent pages upon pages of documents for Eddie to drown himself in: mission briefings, program information, and crew names. The Vulture Program: created to prepare the United States for future Mars missions. Eddie and his crew are just a part of phase one, traveling to the International Space Station to test equipment (and make repairs. They’re the guinea pigs, it seems). 

Six days. Six days and Eddie’s gone. But for now he’s in the parking lot of the Johnson Space Center, trying to hold himself together. 

The hard part’s over, he left everything behind for this moment. Left his child and fought a war and convinced himself he was fine with all that. Dressed his wounds and lost his life and tried to forgive himself for it all. He trained for space travel and got his degree but couldn’t take the final step. One small step forward after slipping backwards for so long. 

He’s standing outside the Space Center, reciting a list of names in his head like a prayer. Athena gave him a list of names: his crew, his commanders, a few names from mission control. All he needs to do is say hello. Open the door. One small step forward.

The handle burns to the touch, and he’s relieved to find nobody on the other side of the glass watching his internal monologue. 

Eddie’s met a few astronauts, engineers, and other employees in passing. But when he walks inside he’s confronted by an array of new faces he can’t match to a name. For some reason, he expected the room to be empty, to have a chance to meet his crew alone, despite knowing it’s never quiet at the space center. He keeps walking forward, still unsure of where he’s going, until he hears—

“—Diaz!” A woman shouts. He turns to the voice but doesn’t recognize it’s source. But she’s marching towards him with unprecedented determination and it takes all his willpower to not fall on his military habits and stand tall for roll call. “You are Diaz, right? I’m not just yelling at a stranger?”

“That’s me,” he says, “but just call me Eddie.” 

“Eddie, right, yeah, come with me,” she says, hardly taking a breath. He tries to match her speed as she continues marching through the Space Center. “I’m Karen. Everything around here’s been hectic, trying to get everything together for the mission — your mission.”

“All this, for the Vulture Program?” he asks, gesturing to the chaos around them; scientists pacing in every direction and equipment moving back and forth. Not a single person standing idle.

“God, I hate that name. So... pretentious,” she huffs, ignoring the question. “They put me in charge, and don’t even let me pick the name.” 

Karen rambles on about the program as they walk, talking about equipment they’re testing and repairs that need to be made. She tries to be brief and reassure him of his safety, but between the lines he hears the same speech Athena gave a thousand times: _Anything that can happen up there, will happen._ It’s space, there’s still so much unknown that may never be known, she cannot guarantee anything. Still, she tries. 

The list of names resurfaces in his mind as Karen guides him to a group of three. 

_Bobby Nash, Lena Bosko, Henrietta Wilson. Bobby Nash, Lena Bosko, Henrietta Wilson. Bobby Nash, Lena Bosko—_

“Hi, I’m Hen,” she introduces herself, offering a hand. 

“Eddie,” he says, shaking her hand.

“We know,” another woman—Lena, presumably—says, “Karen told us all about the newbie. Air Force Staff Sergeant, the Silver Star, top of your class, all that.”

Eddie shifts uncomfortably. He’s all of those things, but none of them sit at the forefront of his mind. The Sergeant title all but forgotten and the Silver Star misplaced somewhere in his house, so distant in his head, he didn’t realize Sophia stole it from his closet. He was unaware of ever being top of his class, college, military, or otherwise, but somehow it was relevant enough for Lena to remember. 

“Athena told me a lot about you. When a spot opened up, I sought you out specifically,” the last man says; Bobby Nash, he matches the list of names to each person. 

“You must be Mission Commander,” Eddie says, standing a little taller (old habits die hard). His head spins slightly when he realizes Athena liked him enough to talk about him with other Commanders.

“Just call me Bobby.” He extends a hand, which Eddie shakes firmly. 

“We just call him Cap,” Hen offers, sitting up to pat Bobby’s shoulder. “Lena is our pilot. You and I are the mission specialists here.” Her eyes brighten as she talks about the job. The two of them, now partners, would run experiments together, spacewalks, and medical emergencies. With every detail she smiles brighter, so full of enthusiasm Eddie could only dream of having. It’s a new dynamic he still hasn’t adjusted to; nobody in the military is ever excited to go to work that day. 

Bobby pitches in to her rambling every few sentences, adding details to each story. The two of them walk with Eddie around the Space Center, explaining various aspects of the mission. Lena follows along, laughing along with Hen and talking lightly with Bobby, but largely ignoring Eddie, only offering a few words as they converse. 

_____________

The next six days—his last six days before leaving—follows the same pattern: Hen and Bobby offer their hand, giving Eddie the crash course on the Vulture Program and talking about their own lives with the same enthusiasm they show their job. But Lena he can’t seem to understand. With him, she’s short, offering only bitterness. If Shannon was a fire forged from endless confidence and a headstrong demeanor, then Lena is the ice, offering nothing but frostbite and resentment. He finds himself slipping into Air Force Eddie in her presence, someone colder who pushed past his grievances and masked confusion behind a stern gaze. He carried himself stiffer, ready to retaliate, as if she would pounce at any moment. And when she left, Eddie would pull away the mask and force his mind to shift, letting Air Force Eddie fall behind, forgotten. 

Six days together, followed by six months in space. Six months without Chris, six months with a team he can’t seem to understand. 

Eddie spends his last day traveling, the constant movement acting as a momentary distraction to the chaos of it all. The space shuttle doesn’t take off from Houston, so they take a plane to the launch site. 

Outside the airport is cold and dark, the sky clouded with grey, hiding the stars behind it. The lights don’t flicker, but their constant gaze is just as menacing, fluorescent, fake. A single sliding glass door is the only divider between where they’re heading and where they are. 

They’re not alone outside, far from it. Reporters hustle closer, their flashing cameras blinding all who dare to look, asking endless questions and never receiving an answer. Airport security tries, they really do try, to hold them back, but the reporters keep swarming, circling closer. 

Eddie stays close to Adriana and Sophia, who do their best to hide Chris from the flashing lights, but they’re persistent in their pestering, lurking, scouring for details on the crew before they go. 

Families huddle outside, handing out their _‘good luck’s_ and _‘stay safe’s_ ( _‘anything that can happen up there, will happen.’_ There is no staying safe).

They all say their final goodbyes and wander inside the airport; Bobby hugs Athena close and exchanges a soft whisper, Karen kisses Hen and laughs. Lena walks in alone. Eddie can’t bring himself to walk at all.

“You better get going, space-man,” Sophia nudges him with her elbow. He rolls his eyes, but turns to pull her in for a hug. “Don’t do anything stupid up there.”

“Don’t do anything stupid down here,” he says into her shoulder before pulling back to hug Adriana.

“I always knew you could do it,” she whispers, just to Eddie. He closes his eyes tight to stifle any tears, refusing to break down in front of his crew. 

“I didn’t,” he admits, just as quiet. Always wanted it, never believed it. The confession burns, his throat tightens. “Take care of Chris for me.”

“Always.”

Eddie takes a deep breath, holding on just a second too long. When he breaks away, he’s faced with the hardest goodbye he’ll ever make. Chris looks up, but never meets Eddie’s eyes. 

It’s not the first time he’s left, and he can’t promise it’ll be his last. The first time Eddie left, Chris wasn’t even born. Shannon looked to him with expectant eyes, but never held on long enough for it to hurt. She slipped the St. Christopher medal into his pocket and told him to come home. It was a scolding, not an invitation. He accepted, nonetheless.

The second time Eddie left, Chris was just a baby, barely able to speak, unable to say goodbye. There was no hug or kiss or promise to be safe; if he held either of them, they might break. 

Shannon left next, with no promise of returning. He never called or tried to reach her again. They’d dated for years, most of which Eddie wasn’t there and Shannon held back. He was drawn to her confidence, her brightness, her fire, but ultimately it left him burnt. 

Now, true to the pattern, it’s Eddie’s turn to leave again. A terrible pattern he’s desperate to break, but never can. Chris will remember, this time, watching Eddie leave. Watching him disappear through the glass doors with a team he barely knows, leaving Chris to count down the days until he comes home. 

Chris, ever the optimist, doesn’t cry. He stands tall (as tall as a nine year old can); there’s sadness in his eyes he won’t let escape. If he speaks, he may crumble, and his dad won’t be there to hold him up. 

Eddie kneels down to his level with open arms, allowing Chris to fall into him. He grips tight to Eddie’s shirt, creasing the fabric in his hands. His glasses twist on his face, but he presses further into the hug (if he holds on long enough, maybe Eddie won’t leave). 

“I’m gonna miss you so much, kid,” Eddie says, so softly, it hardly leaves a trace. Chris tucks his head into his dad’s neck, holding on as long as he can. 

“Do you have your necklace?” Chris barely whispers. 

“I never take it off,” he says. He pulls back just enough to tug the chain out from under his shirt. The dog tag swings against the pendant before falling back on Eddie’s chest. “You have yours?”

Chris nods, holding up his own chain for proof. “You can’t get lost,” he says, reaching out to grab Eddie’s chain. Eddie holds his hands over his, both of them clinging to the tag, as if it tethers them together. 

_In case you get lost,_ Chris had said. The words planted themselves in his head, taking root among the hundreds of memories he couldn’t bear to forget; first days of school and Christmases. Bedtime stories and trips to the zoo. Sunsets and stargazing.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I made this for you.” Chris pulls a folded card from his jacket. Red marker scribbled over blue paper, a purple heart centers the page. “But you can’t open it now. You have to wait until you’re in space.”

 _‘I promise,’_ he doesn’t say. “I can do that,” he says instead, “thank you.” 

He drops a long kiss to Chris’s forehead, letting his hand run through his hair once more, readjusting his glasses before standing up. Eddie tucks the card into his own jacket, close to his heart. 

Not a goodbye. He’ll be back. 

This isn’t goodbye.

He passes through the glass doors, turning back every few steps, expecting his sisters to be gone, but they watch him leave the entire time he goes. 

Eddie has to jog to catch up with the crew. They may tease him for taking so long, but he doesn’t care, they don’t matter, not now. He wants to leave, but he’ll take every second he can before he has to go. 

The flight to their launch point passes quickly (Lena laughs when he gets stuck with the middle seat. He focuses on the card in his jacket instead). When they land, they’re herded away by NASA employees so fast, Eddie couldn’t remember how he got from point A to point B.

Engineers and flight managers are there, pulling him into a space suit and slipping the card into one of the pockets. The people blurred past, throwing him in every direction. He’s barely walking on his own, instead being yanked away. 

Inside the capsule is tight, but nothing he hadn’t trained for. Muscle memory kicks in as he runs through his instructions for take off. It’s effortless, poised, the easiest thing he’s done all day. It’s practiced, an order to follow. Eddie reaches for his pendant. Through the space suit, he feels nothing, but the weight of it still presses into his chest. He feels it’s presence, always, heavier than before, but never a burden. Not anymore. 

Go to college, fight a war, explore space. A mantra he’s repeated countless times in his head like a prayer. A reminder to himself, one which faded some time between Afghanistan and Houston, but never quite managed to leave. 

Go to college, fight a war, explore space. A checklist, the final box shaded, but not yet checked. T-minus-thirty seconds. He could wait that long. He waited thirty years, he could wait another thirty seconds. 

Go to college, fight a war, explore space. ‘ _Explore Space!’_ Somewhere in El Paso the brochure still hung on his wall. Crinkled and torn, but still intact. 

T-minus-fifteen seconds. Eddie could barely hear Hen, even through the headset, but he could see her talking, smiling, telling a joke they could all pretend to laugh at.

Space, not war. Space, not war. T-minus-ten seconds. The engine rumbles. It’s louder than gunfire. 

Fight a war, come home, never leave again. He’s leaving again. T-minus-five seconds.

He closes his eyes.

_Four seconds._

This is it.

_Three seconds._

Space, not war.

_Two seconds._

Explore space.

_One second._

He’s gone. Everything shakes. It’s nerves and engines and fuel tanks falling from the sky. It’s loud and burning but he leaves it all behind. They’re flying remote, there’s nothing to do but wait. He can only wait. This is trained. This is practiced. This is everything and nothing he’s ever expected. 

He stops. The world stops, stands still. The shaking passes, Hen kicks his foot and he looks up, opening his eyes for the first time. It’s dark, yet it burns bright. He can see it all. He can see it all...

Eddie always loved the stars. For the first time, he can see them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mostly filler, just trying to get everyone to space (finally). mostly unedited, i will not apologize.


	4. Mission Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck never had a plan. He had a degree, a distant sister, and a few new notches to his bedpost, but there was never a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those who were asking on tumblr: no, there is no regular update schedule. all of this is posted, mostly unedited, straight out of google docs. if you have questions you can talk to me on tumblr @maysgrant

Evan Buckley never had a plan. Career days at school were an absolute nightmare; endless options with no clear answer. No dream, no destination. He dreaded the question, _“What do you want to be when you grow up?”_ and hated the response that always followed when he said _“I don’t know.”_

There’s too much to choose from, too much. One door closes, and fifty more doors open, pulling him in. He doesn’t know. Infinite options and no right answers. 

Buck wanted to be useful, that much he knows. It still leaves thousands of opportunities open, and if he doesn’t grab one, cling on to it, the door will close. He’ll be left with nothing. No aspiration. No career. Useless. 

He grew up vague, leaving every option open; nothing fit right. History and architecture and biology. Nothing fit right. Undeclared, open, exploring. Nothing fit right. Maddie left fourteen days ago. Nothing fit right. 

She had a dream, then she had a husband. Buck never liked him, but she was too far gone, waving goodbye, never to return. So she found a new dream, then another, and another, dancing around her options, hesitant, calculated. Something was wrong, this much Buck could see, but that door already closed, leaving Buck in their parents house, sixteen years old, nothing more to give. 

Buck called her every day. She never picked up. Maddie left one year ago, he started calling once a week. The phone would ring, too long, too loud. 

_“This is Maddie Kendall, sorry I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a message after the—”_

He hung up before he could hear the beep. He sent birthday cards, Christmas cards, even tried writing a letter. There was never a response, no indication the mail was received. His parents claimed Maddie a lost cause, having long since given up on trying to contact her. Buck told her of this in his letter. 

Pennsylvania was lonely without her, too quiet to be a home, too cold to be a shelter. He wrote another letter, telling her he was college-bound. Seventeen years old, a future too broad to be of use. 

He declared an engineering major, not knowing if it would fit, but willing to take the chance. Buck had good grades, he was good at science and math and building and problem solving and he could make use of that. His parents were proud. He was aimless and lonely, but his parents were proud. 

Maddie left two years ago, her number disconnected, his last letter marked _Return To Sender._ She moved away, he assumed, and he could only hope she left without the weight of an empty marriage. She was nowhere.

(Buck could only hope it was safer there).

Aerospace engineering brought him to Texas on a scholarship he couldn’t dare to refuse. He took a job bartending as he coasted through classes. He let the sunset split his life; a student by day, searching for something greater, and a bartender by night, living paycheck to paycheck, flirting with every patron for an extra tip. 

He lived lightly; no roots to anchor him down, just a job and a half-finished degree. He found love at the bottom of the glasses he served, in the phone numbers scratched onto paper coasters, and in the grabbing hands pulling him to a bathroom stall or the backseat of a taxi. One night of discarded shirts, messy kisses, and shallow intimacy. And when the drinks from the night before slipped from their systems, Buck was left alone, searching for the next meaningless, half-drunken night. 

_“Call me?”_ He’d ask, but they never did. 

No, it wasn’t love, but it was close enough. 

In his loneliness, he excelled in school, and somewhere along the way he fell in love with his degree. Graduated a year early with no plans, no future in sight, and an astronomy minor just for kicks. Maddie left six years ago. Buck saved a seat for her at graduation.

(He couldn’t find her, never sent a ticket. But he hoped she’d find her way).

The shifts at the bar grew longer. Now working day and night, he felt his worlds blending together, his degree all but forgotten on the wall of his studio apartment, and the nightlife becoming his only life. Pouring and extra shot with a wink and a grin was all it took to earn a few extra dollars, to earn one night in the company of another, however short and however fleeting. 

Each sunset bled into the next, and he could only follow it’s glow into the next day. The early morning brought four crows screaming on the windowsill. They dragged him to the afternoon and the empty bar he inhabits. The night carried him to the arms of a stranger, too forceful, but nonetheless welcomed. 

Buck never had a plan. He had a degree, a distant sister, and a few new notches to his bedpost, but there was never a plan. 

Texas served him well. He grew fond of the vastness of it all, the summers that burned too hot, and the lights that were dim enough to let him see the stars. But it still left him empty, searching for a future he couldn’t find. 

So he poured himself into the one thing that always came easy: school work and science and solving problems that didn’t belong to him. Course work was easier than dwelling on his dreams, or lack thereof. 

No one would look at Evan Buckley, the bright smiles, long legs, and muscles, and expect to find a masters degree in aerospace engineering (an _in progress_ masters degree, rather). 

He tried to leave Texas, perhaps find his future in a new city with new faces, but his University offered another scholarship, and for the first time, he struggled to find another option. 

Five years. Five years stuck in the same routine; bussing tables, pouring drinks. Essays and research. An empty apartment and, eventually, a masters degree. Boring, repetitive, stuck. 

His parents were proud of the degree, but Buck hid the lifestyle that allowed him to fund it. Phone calls from Pennsylvania were few and far between, but each call threw him back to his teenage years. Career days he couldn’t avoid and the ongoing panic fueled by his parents' gaze. 

_“We’re just worried about you,”_ they would say. Always wanting more for him, always wanting better. They couldn’t help Maddie, but maybe they could help him. Use him to repent. 

And the worst part? It worked. Pity and worry and every call home he avoided. It was shame that ignited the spark, the desire to move forward. 

Buck quit his job without a new plan, tired of the hollow nights of drinks and sex. It was fun, sure, but it wasn’t built to last. The tips he raked were enough to live on, for now, but he needed a job, a path, something to follow. 

So he spoke to an old professor, who referred him to another professor, who called an old military contact, who called a friend in California, which led him down a long chain of scientists and engineers and astronomers who stumbled upon the perfect path for Buck to follow. Countless Skype interviews, resumes, and headaches led him to the Johnson Space Center and—

_“—Maddie?”_

Maddie left twelve years ago. For twelve years, Buck hoped. Hoped for a phone call, a postcard, anything at all to let him know she was alive, she was okay. Wondering where she was, when, _if,_ he’d ever see her again became a favorite pastime. Of all the possible reunions, he never expected one at NASA mission control. 

Spacecraft Communicator; she was the voice connecting Earth to space. The anchor, the tether, the one calling astronauts home. Maddie’s whole career revolved around being the lifeline to those who were hundreds of miles away, but for twelve years, she couldn’t call the one person who needed her the most. 

_“I’m sorry,”_ were the first words to break the air. Sorry for leaving, sorry for never coming back. Sorry for every missed Christmas and graduation. Sorry for hiding, sorry for _everything_ she didn’t do. 

_“Where’s Doug?”_ Buck asked, because how could he not. His first day at his new job, and here he was, being pulled into the parking lot by a sister he never thought he’d see again. The sister who, all this time, was living just a few streets away. He could blame her for everything, or he could blame Doug instead. Blaming him was easier. Doug, the boyfriend Buck could never stand, who tried to hide Maddie from him even before she left. 

_“Prison, the last I checked.”_

Good fucking riddance. 

Maddie kept her story short; they were still at work, after all. But she invited him for coffee and swapped a decade's worth of war stories, telling him tales of college, court cases, and a divorce from prison until the lights went dark at the local cafe and the cup in his hands went cold. She replaced the deactivated number in his phone and left her address in his contacts. It was as close as he could get to a promise; she won’t leave, not again. He had to believe that. He had to believe it wasn’t her fault.

(But still he wondered why she didn’t call sooner).

_____________

One month is all it took for Buck to never want to leave. One month of on the job training, shadowing, and mental notes. He watched the Vulture launch, saw them dock at the ISS on his second day. Watched their first few experiments, watched them call down to Houston; Maddie would call up and he would listen. He was restless, having no real responsibilities of his own yet, but he was never bored, always finding something to watch, something new to learn. 

Ground control fits, it’s a good path to follow. It brought him to Maddie (he’ll stay forever if he has to).

The space center is busy, always is. Always moving, shifting, passing papers and switching bodies. Chairs rolling, doors locking, never dull, never silent. He’s thankful for this; the noise helps him think. But it’s because of the noise that he doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him, clicking on the concrete. 

“Buck,” Karen says, as if she's been repeating his name for awhile. She starts walking with him towards the mission control room, her pace increasing to keep up with his long strides. “I’ve got a job for you.”

“Really?” he asks, scrunching his face slightly. 

“Yes, and don’t act so surprised.” She opens the door to the mission control room, and he follows her inside. 

The room is bright with computer monitors and tv screens mounted on the wall, displaying maps, graphs, pictures, anything that could possibly be relevant to the mission. The chatter in the room is soft, whispers building on top of one another, slowly amplifying, but never overwhelming. No one acknowledges their presence, no one turns a head. They work quickly, sliding between desks, some tables surrounded by engineers, trying to wrap their minds around a problem, while some tables stand vacant, no purpose, no reason to be filled. 

“We’ve been moving people around a lot lately, leaving us a bit understaffed here,” she says, gesticulating around the room, “You probably noticed all the… chaos while you were shadowing.”

Buck did notice, but he thought nothing of it, assuming mission control was always hectic. He nods while Karen continues to speak.

“There’s some jobs we’ve had to push to the back-burner until we could find an extra set of hands.”

“I’m the hands?” he points to himself.

“You’re the hands.” Karen walks him to an empty desk towards the back of the room, separated from most of the chaos (as Karen would describe it). She snags an empty chair, wheeling it to the desk in front of him. A glass name tag sits on top reading ‘GC’ for Ground Controller, his official title, the desk beside him reading ‘Surgeon’.

“So, what do you need me to do?” Buck asks, taking the seat Karen offered him.

She smiles, “Obviously, you have other jobs here, but I’m sticking you with this side project.” On the monitor in front of him, she opens a file, dating back for the past month. Within it, there’s a separate folder for each day. “We’re trying something new with the Vulture Project, the crew on the ISS is testing it out for us. Each astronaut has been recording daily video logs, using them as journals to talk about the mission, give updates, rant, scream, cry, doesn't matter. If they have something to say, they’ll say it here.”

He twists his chair to look up at her, hands grabbing either arm rest, “Great, they’re making video diaries. I still don’t really understand what you want me to do here.”

“I want you to watch them.”

“Aren’t journals supposed to be, I don’t know, personal?” 

“That’s why you’re the only person who’s gonna be watching them,” Karen says, letting one hand fall to rest on her hip, “Watch them, transfer the files to _this_ harddrive,” she gestures to one of the boxes on the desk, “and take notes. If they say something relevant to the mission, pass the information along.”

The job is easy compared to the rest of his engineering work. Watch a video, take notes, send the notes to someone else, rinse and repeat. 

“It still seems invasive,” he adds after a brief pause.

“Look, they’re not gonna say anything they’re not comfortable with us knowing. If you really can’t do this, I can try to find someone else, but I think you’d be good at it.”

“Good at...watching videos?” She pulls an extra empty chair next to Buck and sits with him, one hand on his shoulder.

“Buck, you’re smart. So is everyone else here,” she gestures around the room, “but you’ve got a good heart. It’s not just watching videos.” Karen pushes away, reaching for the keyboard. On another monitor, she opens a chat box, three dots flashing at the bottom. No messages sent, no messages received. “We’ve set up this chat line to let you send messages directly to each of the astronauts. Personal messages. I want you to talk to them, if they need it.”

“You want me to be their therapist?” he asks, still not entirely following.

“No, no,” she holds her head in her hands, “I just— being up there? It’s stressful. It might be nice if they know someone down here is listening. If they need it.”

He watches the three dots flashing at the bottom of the screen, then watches them disappear. It’s like a beacon, a phone left ringing. No message ever appears, the screen left dark and blank, the cursor hovering aimlessly. He knows what it’s like to be on the other side of an empty line, hoping, waiting for someone to pick up. 

_“This is Maddie Kendall, sorry I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a message after the—”_

“I’ll do it.”

Karen smiles, clapping her hands together before standing, “Great. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

_____________

It’s hours worth of footage. The videos are short, but there’s a month worth of content to cover, and sifting through, trying to find relevant information to pass along, takes time. It’s easy work, but it’s tedious.

Buck filters through the first few days of videos rather quickly; there’s not much for the ISS crew to report to mission control, and there’s something about talking into a laptop webcam that’s rather uncomfortable. But as more videos roll through, he starts to notice a pattern. 

Hen Wilson. Detailed and well spoken with her work, casual and bright with her personality. She’s the first to make any mention of her personal life, and Buck finds it rather refreshing. He would have never known Karen had a wife if not for these videos, much less a wife _who’s an astronaut and also incredibly hilarious._ She mentions her son, Denny, and for a moment he considers sending her a message, asking about her kid, but the video is three weeks old, and he can’t bring himself to say anything.

___

Bobby keeps his messages short and to the point. He’s barely watching the videos, staring at a side monitor, typing his notes, when he hears Bobby mention his wife, Athena, and his step kids. 

_“It’s May’s birthday, she’s turning eighteen today,”_ Bobby says, _“Next time I call, I’ll have to ask if she’s registered to vote.”_

If the message wasn’t two week old, he would’ve wished her a happy birthday. But he doesn’t know Bobby, and he’s only met Athena once in passing, so he keeps his wishes in his head, and plays the next video. 

___

 _“I think I’m losing my mind,”_ Lena says, and Buck kind of feels bad for laughing. At this point, they’re only three weeks into the mission, but it’s the first time he’s heard Lena say anything even remotely personal. He’s gathered a vague understanding of the rest of the crew’s life, but Lena remains a mystery. Buck knows she was an Air Force pilot, and graduated from the US Air Force academy, but he knows nothing more than what could be easily read in her files. 

_“He’s got too much confidence for a rookie, and it’s driving me crazy.”_

___

 _“I have no idea what I’m doing, honestly,”_ Eddie admits, his smile distant, barely looking at the camera. It’s a moment of vulnerability before he straightens his back, lifts his chin, and gives his report. 

It throws Buck off. When Maddie speaks to him over Comms, he’s always composed, voice steady, with the occasional joke going over the heads of most, but always made Buck grin just slightly. There’s not much to be said of his reports, mostly data and statistics Buck’s never paid attention to. He’s seen Eddie on the monitors, working logically, following procedures to the letter. 

Buck can’t help but turn his head at Eddie’s confession; it’s the first time he’s seen him so overwhelmed, and he can’t help but be intrigued by him. 

In his first month at mission control, Buck has seen three versions of Eddie. 

Eddie, the soldier, Staff Sergeant Diaz. Fought a war and earned a Silver Star for his efforts. The veteran, top of his class, sent to space right out of training. It’s all written in paper, a single file that only took a few seconds to read, but held a lifetime of stories and questions. 

The photo attached to the file belongs to Eddie, the astronaut, wearing a new kind of uniform, trading in camouflage for white neoprene. Eddie, the mission specialist, level headed, with a dry humor only a handful would laugh at. He follows commands swifty, head high, the remnants of military training still lingering. 

The third Eddie, the Eddie on his monitor, sends his confessions into space, forgetting there’s a person on the other side of his webcam taking notes, observing closely, staring at the screen long after the video ended. 

Buck replays the video, having been too trapped in his thoughts to understand what he was saying. It’s not until he watches the footage for a second time that he hears Eddie make a second confession, _“I don’t even know why we make these. I haven’t said anything that hasn’t already been written and sent back to Houston. Does anyone even watch these?”_

This Eddie, the third Eddie, is the one that fascinates Buck the most. For the first time, he’s seeing Eddie up close, and it feels oddly personal. It’s just a few sentences, a few moments of honesty, but it hooks Buck and sends him reeling. 

He wants to know more than what’s written in his reports or in his file. It’s all surface level, and he can’t help but wonder what’s hidden beneath. 

Buck checks the timestamp of the video: _Uploaded Three Hours Ago._

He considers sending a message, using his chat box for the first time. But even with all his questions, he struggles to find the perfect words to send off. 

_Yes, someone watches these_ , is the most obvious first contact, but the words are too stiff, and would make an odd first impression. 

To say, _I’m here, I’m watching,_ reads wrong, and Buck doesn’t know how to send support without sounding terribly invasive.

 _You’re not alone,_ he types, staring at the message for far too long, before deleting the words and walking away.

____

(Eddie sees the three dots flash across his screen for just a moment, before disappearing, no message sent).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr @maysgrant


	5. Fire and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie ends the video and sends it to ground control, staring at the screen long after the file sent. The chat box, always in the corner of the screen, stares back. Not once has a message been sent, and he’s not sure if the chat box works. He’s considered sending a test message before, out of sheer curiosity, but never once has he even typed a message, much less press send.

_ DAY 35 _

_ This is Diaz, reporting back to Houston. It was  _ almost  _ a normal day, until our last experiment nearly set our module on fire. How that happened is way beyond me, but at least I can add ‘fight fires in space’ to the list of things I never want to do again. _

_ We’ve trained for everything, even space fires, but I… I have no idea what I’m doing, honestly.  _

_ I’ve already given my written report, so I’ll just wrap this up, I guess. Y’know, I don’t even know why we make these. I haven’t said anything that hasn’t already been written and sent back to Houston. It’s just— does anyone even watch these? _

____

Eddie ends the video and sends it to ground control, staring at the screen long after the file sent. The chat box, always in the corner of the screen, stares back. The only conversations open are ones between him and Bobby and him and Hen. Not once has he sent a message to mission control, and he’s not sure if the chat box  _ works.  _ He’s considered sending a test message before, out of sheer curiosity, but never once has he even typed a message, much less press send. 

He hears chatter in the background and closes the lid of his laptop, leaving mission control behind. Eddie drifts—not walks,  _ drifts— _ through the module towards his crew. 

From a distance, he watches. He watches Lena laugh with Hen, a smile she never wears in his presence. It’s a camaraderie Eddie isn’t quite a part of. He works well with Bobby, and Hen’s a good partner to have, but the pieces are disjointed, never clicking in place. Lena hardly speaks to him and Eddie can’t understand  _ why.  _

Without his presence, the crew works in sync. It’s second nature to them, finishing each other's sentences and handing off tools without a word. And distantly, Eddie knows he’s not supposed to be here. He’s the backup, the last-minute replacement for a crew that functions without him. He doesn’t know  _ who  _ he replaced, or why, but he knows this isn’t  _ his _ team, not really. 

The three of them, the crew, share a dynamic that reminds him of training, of Sal, Ali, and Tommy, and he can’t help but wonder if things would be different if they were here instead.

Eddie turns back, drifting away from the conversation and towards the work-out gear instead. He can still hear them, but can’t quite understand them. Just white noise and smiles and the gears of the treadmill turning. 

It’s easy to tune them out over time, easy to find solace in the small module they liked to call a gym. He spends hours there, not realizing that the conversation faded just as soon as it started, and he is now living in the silence of the space station. 

He returns to his small corner of the space station, pushing off the walls until he reaches his desk. Eddie opens his laptop once more, for no real reason in particular, rotating between windows and tabs, just because he can and it’s late and he doesn’t feel like sleeping. 

But then he opens the chat box, the small window that’s taunted him for thirty-five days, and just for a moment, he sees three dots flash across the bottom of the screen, only briefly, before disappearing, no message ever sent. 

Someone’s watching. Miles and miles away, maybe someone’s listening.

____

_ DAY 36 _

_ Until yesterday, I was pretty sure nobody was watching these. I mean, I still don’t really  _ know _ if anyone watches these, but I think someone does.  _

_ I don’t know. _

_ It’s still weird to talk to a laptop. And I can’t tell if knowing someone is listening makes it better or worse. There could be multiple people listening, I guess. Like a team movie night, y’know? Everyone in mission control puts us on the big screen while we give our reports in the form of video diaries.  _

_ It’s not really a diary if I’m only talking about work. Diaries aren’t professional. I read my sister’s diary as a kid once, there was nothing professional about it. She was pissed at me, obviously. Can’t blame her.  _

_ This is supposed to be a report, and I’m just talking to myself about my sister… What am I doing? _

____

They’re analyzing the data from the  _ infamous _ space-fire experiment. It’s easy, mostly busy work, but it’s annoying. Numbers  _ should  _ make sense, but the data is skewed and broken.

“This… is terrible,” Hen says, holding her head in her hands, staring at the screen, eyes dancing around a graph that  _ should  _ be linear, but darts in every direction.

“Agreed,” Eddie says. He cracks his knuckles before continuing to type. 

Lena sits at her own desk with Bobby, working away at a separate project. “You’re a physicist who doesn’t like math?” She scoffs. He’s never talked about college, but Lena always seems to know more about him than he does about her; Eddie has no idea what her life looked like before they launched. 

He looks away from his laptop to meet Lena’s eyes. “I said I don’t like statistics. Stats and calculus are two  _ very  _ different things.”

“I don’t think any sane person  _ likes  _ math,” Hen says, “you either tolerate math or you hate math.”

“What about math majors?” Bobby offers.

She looks up. “Like I said, no  _ sane  _ person likes math.”

“Maybe it would be less terrible if you hadn’t set everything on fire,” Lena says, her voice accusatory. He looks across the module at her, but she’s already looking away, burying herself in her work.

“Nobody set anything on fire. It’s not Hen  _ or Eddie’s  _ fault,” Bobby says, words pointed at Lena, trying to stop any arguments from arising. 

He doesn’t want to argue but he’s prepared to defend himself. Before he can speak, a soft  _ beep  _ chirps from his laptop. Eddie turns to see a chat notification.

_ WILSON [06:21]: space arsonist :/ _

Eddie lets out a short breath and presses the back of his hand to his mouth to try and stop any laughter. 

_ DIAZ [06:21]: Says the space arsonist.  _

_ DIAZ [06:22]: I’ll have you know, I’m also a space firefighter. _

_ WILSON [06:22]: if you say so…  _

____

_ DAY 39 _

_ I think Bobby’s losing his mind a little. He spent an hour talking about the first meal he’d make when he got home in vivid detail: a mushroom risotto with parmesan and white wine. Not only that, but he invited us all over for dinner with his family. And I can’t tell if it’s a genuine offer, or if he’s projecting. _

_ Either way, I’ll be taking him up on it. I miss eating food that isn’t freeze-dried. _

____

“You’re kidding,” Hen says, dropping her cards as Eddie reveals his winning hand. They hover in the air, slowly drifting apart. 

“Not kidding,” he says. His old competitive streak seeps through, “What’s that now, three wins in a row?” She rolls her eyes and collects the cards. He lets himself laugh with her, grabbing stray cards and tossing them through the air, enjoying the moment. 

She’s always been nice to him, but the last few days solidified his trust in her.

(Nothing forges friendships quite like space fires).

Lena speaks up from her desk, not bothering to look towards them. “Don’t you have work to do?” 

He takes a deep breath and tries to ignore her bitterness. He can’t tell if it’s better or worse than her outright ignoring him. 

“Oh, relax Bosko, we’re just taking a break. We’ll get back to it in a minute,” Hen says, ever the mediator. Lena opts to leave the room, leaving them to their game.

Hen takes a breath and pauses, “You good?”

His instinct is to say yes, but that would be a lie. He sits tall and says nothing at all.

(Somehow, that’s worse).

“Lena’s always been kinda distant,” she continues, “but she’s not unreasonable. I’ve never seen her act like  _ this,  _ but I’m sure she has her reasons.”

He lifts his brow, “You think I pissed her off?” She sighs, searching for an explanation. 

“I don’t think it’s necessarily  _ you,” _ Hen says, shuffling the cards. “Look, I’m not trying to excuse it, but I just think she’d hate anyone in your position.”

“My position?”

She hands off the deck, and he deals out the cards as she talks. “We had a good team before, we had a long time to get to know each other.” Hen grabs the cards as they float towards her. “No offense, but you’re just back up. We needed a last minute fourth, Bobby picked you.”

He tilts his head, trying to make sense of it all. “So she hates me for saying yes.”

“I don’t think she hates you at all.” She sorts through her cards for a moment before looking up. “She’s angry. Not at you, just  _ angry.” _

Hen plays her hand and waits for Eddie to follow up. He shuffles through his own cards before laying them out, letting them hover between them. The conversation lulls, yet hangs in the air.

He pauses before pulling another card. “What happened to your other guy?”

“No one told you?” Eddie shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s my place to say. Lena knows the story best.”

“I doubt she’d tell me.”

“Have you tried asking?” He scrunches his face. No, he hasn’t. He’s barely talked to her, never exchanging more than a sentence or two. There’s just always been tension, a barrier between them Eddie didn’t know how to navigate. 

No one held grudges in the military: if there’s a problem, you solve it. Simple. With Shannon, she never held back. If there was a problem, she’d say something, the argument ending when she decides it’s ending. In training, there never seemed to  _ be  _ problems, agreements were reached before anyone ever realized there was a conflict. 

He’s never had to question where a problem started, only how to solve it. With Lena he’s trying to fix something he didn’t know he broke, and he can’t risk making it worse.

“I need to get you talking more often,” Hen smirks, “when you talk, you lose.”

She lays out her winning cards in front of him, clearly satisfied. 

“Rematch?”

____

_ DAY 40 _

_ Nothing particularly exciting happened today. More math, more graphs, no fires, no yelling. So if I get through this report fast enough, I’ll have enough time to call home. _

_ So lets make this quick... _

____

Eddie sends the video and quickly closes his laptop. He doesn’t bother to check his messages. 

Behind the lid, hanging on his desk, he sees Chris’s card. The one he stuffed in his jacket and promised not to read until he was in space. He’s read it every day since he left, the paper sharply creasing where he’s endlessly folded the edges. 

_ Have fun in space!!! I’ll miss you. Love, Chris. _

It leaves him longing every time he reads it. He instinctively reaches for the pedant around his neck, tracing the indent with his thumb. 

They share a phone on the ISS, the only rule being  _ don’t hog it.  _ He’s quick to dial Sophia’s number, letting the line ring.

“Hello?” she answers.

“Hey.”

“Oh, hey space-man, how’s space? Spacey?” He can hear her smiling through the phone.

He lets out a quick breath from his nose, “Space is fine.”

“Glad to hear it. Give me a sec, I’ll go find Chris,” Sophia says.

Eddie scrunches his brows, “What if I wanted to talk to you?”

“I know where your priorities lie, and it’s not with me. I know my place in the Diaz hierarchy. Chris!” she shouts, muffled as she leans away from the phone. “There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”

Even through the phone, he can hear Chris walking, the soft click of his crutches filling the speaker. There’s shuffling on the other side before he speaks. “Hello?”

It’s one word. One simple, soft greeting, but it carries so much fondness, making his heart skip.

“Hey Chris.”

“Dad!” He shouts at the sound of Eddie’s voice. The excitement hurts; talking to his son shouldn’t be such a rarity, Chris shouldn’t have to count it as a special occasion. 

He’s quick to ramble endlessly about school, about the A he got on his spelling test last week and how Adriana was quick to hang it on the fridge next to last year's report card. He talks about his aunts taking him to the park on the weekend and how they tossed seeds out for the ducks ( _ “Not bread, because Adriana said bread isn’t good for them.”). _

He absent mindedly twists the chain around his neck, feeling the imprint of his own name on the tag. (It’s become a habit he’ll never break). It’s familiar now, the grooves of the metal, the rattling of the chain. He never touched the chain in Afghanistan, the dog tags always burned hot on his chest, and dangerous in his hands. But now it’s a comfort, cool and forgiving.

“Sophia took me to the library yesterday and I got a book about space. She was reading it with me,” Chris says, and he couldn’t help but feel proud. If nothing else, he instilled a new love in Chris, something to pass the time. “It says sometimes you can see the International Space Station from here. And I think I can see it... but I’m not sure.”

“Really?” Eddie asks, absolutely beaming, “You must have  _ super  _ good vision then, because I’m looking right at the sky and I can’t see it at  _ all.”  _ Chris giggles and lets out a long, exasperated  _ Daaad!  _ It only makes him laugh more.

Eddie looks out his window. As a kid, he got so used to looking up. It’s a strange habit to break, to start looking down. It’s dark, but he can see the lights around Texas, the soft, yellow shine casting a shadow across the continent. Houston glows. He aches to be there. 

“I can see you guys, though. I can see Texas, Houston, our house. I can even see you.”

“No you can’t! I’m too small,” Chris giggles again. It’s the best sound to ever fill the air of the shuttle.

“But I have  _ really  _ good eyesight,” he says, stretching his words. “I can see you, kid.” 

Eddie stares at the Earth, watches it pass beneath them. The ISS orbits the planet every ninety minutes, the night bleeds into the day quickly, without care. Just as soon as he spots the horizon, it disappears into the rising sun. “When I get home, I’ll show you how to find the space station. It’s easy to spot once you know how?”

“Really?”

“Really,” he reassures. 

“You promise?” Chris asks, as he always does. He already knows the answer. It’s always the same answer.

“I promise.”

____

_ DAY 42 _

_ I talked to Hen earlier today. Somehow we started talking about these videos. She said she’s mostly talking about… personal stuff? I was kidding when I called this a diary, but she’s  _ actually  _ using it like a diary and barely talking about work. Talking about Karen and her kid. Sounds slightly more enjoyable than reading aloud a report I already wrote and sent to mission control.  _

_ Don’t get me wrong, I still think these videos are, mostly, useless. But if I’m forced to talk, I’m gonna talk about what  _ I  _ want to talk about.  _

_ I called Chris yesterday, after my last video. He’s my son. I… God, I miss that kid so much. He told me he got a book at the library about space, said he’s gonna try to look for the International Space Station at night, because sometimes you can see it when the sky’s clear. He’s just… He’s amazing. I don’t know what I did to deserve him…  _

____

Staring at the empty chat box has become all too familiar. Knowing someone is on the other side has only made it worse. There’s someone watching, listening to him talk nonsense about things that really don’t matter. He’s never had that before, someone who listens, even if he says nothing at all. 

_ Thank you,  _ he types, his brain only just catching up with his hands and realizing what he’s done. It’s an odd conversation starter,  _ Thank you.  _ No one starts with a thank you. 

The cursor flashes at the end of his sentence like a question mark. It’s giving him an out, an undo button. He hasn’t pressed send. But he’s tempted. 

He deletes the words, and quickly retypes them again, before just as quickly deleting them (again).

Two words shouldn’t be so heavy, yet they weigh down his fingers, one hovering over  _ delete _ , the other resting over  _ send.  _

Just as he starts typing again, he sees the familiar three dots flash across his own screen. He freezes. The competitive side of him wants to type faster, send his message before the other person gets the chance. But the scientist side of him is curious, wants to know what the other person will say. 

He pauses, stops typing and watches the screen, his cursor still flashing. But just as he stops typing, the three dots disappear. 

No message sent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bother me on tumblr @maysgrant


	6. Message Received

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m bad at this part of my job,” Buck gestures to the screen. Eddie’s video is still open, and the chat box cursor flashes in the corner, taunting him.
> 
> Chimney stares at the screen, eyes squinting, “You’re bad at...watching videos of hot astronauts?”
> 
> “I’m bad at talking to them.”
> 
> “You’re bad at talking to hot astronauts?”

_ I love kids, how old is he? _

What a creepy, terrifying message to send to a total stranger. Buck deletes the message before he can even finish typing it. The last frame of the video stays open on his computer, staring at him, the chat box forever minimized in the bottom corner. 

Talking is easy. He talks all the time. But talking to Eddie...it’s impossible to reach out. Not for lack of trying. He’s typed hundreds of drafted messages, but never once pressing send. All the words sit wrong in his head and mistranslate themselves across the keyboard. Too forward, too boring, too invasive. He only gets one chance at a first introduction, but he can never find the words.

He groans and drops his forehead to the table with a resounding thud. The keyboard shakes on impact, the coffee beside him ripples in its mug. He always talks, but he can’t bring himself to speak to the one person he  _ needs  _ to talk to.

The computer beeps. His head snaps up instantly, hands hovering over the keys, eyes adjusting to the light as he reads—

_ HAN [18:29]: You good, Buckaroo? _

He groans again. “Chim, why are you messaging me, you sit three feet away from me,” he calls out across the desk divide. In an instant, there’s a second chair rolling up beside his, knocking him to the side. 

“Look how many messages I’ve sent you,” Chimney gestures to the screen, “And look how many times you’ve responded. Zero! It’s unbelievable.” He sips the coffee in his hand. The tag nearly hangs off the cup, the list of additives being long and  _ nauseating  _ (Coconut macchiato with a quad shot? And cinnamon?). __

“Don’t you have things to do?” Buck turns to him and gestures around, “Doctor-ly things.”

“Well last I checked, none of the astronauts are in any acute medical distress,” he makes a point of sitting up straight to gaze around the room, “and nobody in this room is currently dying. So no, I don’t have things to do.”

“Is that really all your job is?”

“As flight surgeon, my job is to be a present and to be a doctor. I am doing  _ both  _ of those things,” he points to himself, “ _ and  _ taking time out of my oh-so-busy schedule to talk to you.”

He dropped his head into his hands, sighing deeply. Chimney is not the person he needs to be talking to right now.

“So, what’s all the moaning and groaning over here for.”

“I’m bad at my job.” Buck grabs his own drink, but the coffee’s gone cold in his hand. He frowns and drops it on the desk.

“I wouldn’t say that. You’re bad at a lot of things. Karaoke, messaging me back, buying shirts that fit you—” he turns to Buck, who’s quick to look up from his hands and kick Chimney’s chair away from his desk. He holds his hands up in surrender, pulling himself back towards the table.“— _ but  _ you’re not bad at your job. Don’t be so dramatic.” 

“I’m bad at this part of my job,” Buck gestures to the screen. Eddie’s video is still open, and the chat box cursor flashes in the corner, taunting him.

Chimney stares at the screen, eyes squinting, “You’re bad at...watching videos of hot astronauts?”

“I’m bad at talking to them.”

“You’re bad at talking to hot astronauts?” he slowly repeats. Buck smacks his arm lightly, making Chimney laugh.

“Stop calling him hot, you’re dating my sister.” 

He rolls his chair back slightly, suddenly defensive. “I’m not dating your sister, we’re just friends,” he points.

“Whatever. The point is,” Buck turns his attention back to the monitor, “my job is to reach out if they need me, and I haven’t been able to do that. I haven’t sent a single message.” He points at the chat box, the only messages being between other mission control members. “My whole job is to send messages. Maybe I should talk to Karen, get reassigned…”

“Hey,” Chimney grabs his arm, reassuring, “it’s not your fault for not saying anything. They haven’t said anything either. How are you supposed to know if they need you if they don’t reach out first?”

“He needs me. I think— I think he needs me.” Buck keeps his gaze on the video. It’s a single frame of Eddie, softly smiling into the camera, ending the video to call his son. It’s the shortest video he’s sent since arriving at the ISS. In the last month, Buck’s never seen Eddie care so much about one person, or be so excited to hang up. 

“Just him?” He smiles slightly and Buck finally looks away from the monitor to face Chimney. He wants to roll his eyes, shove him away, but he can’t deny that there’s some truth to it. Bobby and Hen have been to space before, they know the drill, they’ve adjusted. And Lena doesn’t say anything personal in her videos, he would never know if she needed to talk. But Eddie seems distant, like he’s reaching but doesn’t know what he’s trying to grab. There’s a sadness to the way he smiles, and Buck wishes he could help.

“Well personally, I’m glad to know you not messaging me back isn’t personal, it’s a universal experience.” Chimney says. He pauses. “Just say hi,” he offers after a moment, “And stop overthinking it.” He grabs the edge of the table and pushes himself back to his own desk leaving Buck alone. He closes the video and walks away, leaving the ISS behind him. 

_____

Outside the space center, the sun sets. It leaves a soft glow around Houston, a warm shadow casting over the city. The light reflects off the windows, blinding him with streaks of orange and yellow. From miles away the wind blows and swirls the leaves gathering on the pavement, crinkling as they fall back to Earth. The moment is warm, but the air is cool as the evening breeze dances through. 

Cars navigate the parking lot, rolling off, away from the sun and towards their homes. Their tires crunch against the gravel, interrupting the silence, but not disrupting the peace. There’s some faces in the driver’s seats that he can’t recognize, a woman with a phone pressed to her ear, smiling at the receiver, and two men, sharing glaces across the console. The windows are shut, but their laughter still radiates. 

It’s been a month since Buck started working at the space center. Houston’s as close to a home as he’s ever had. Yet he still aches for something more. There’s friends in his corner and the sister he thought he’d lost forever. 

But the sun still sets alone. 

“I’ve lived here for two years,” he hears a voice behind him. He turns to find Maddie walking towards him, “but I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of the sunsets.”

Her smile is soft, yet filled with worry, a look he grew far too familiar with as a kid. It’s meant as a comfort, a silent way of saying  _ ‘I don’t know what’s wrong, but it’ll be okay’ _ . 

She leans against the railing beside him and stares at the horizon with him. She says nothing. Maddie always has something to say, some words of wisdom and the wonderful ability to ease every doubt. Buck looks to her, waiting for her to say something, anything at all, but still she says nothing. 

The crows howl overhead, allowing him to turn away. The noise is welcomed, it fills the air and pulls him away from the odd tension between the two of them. 

“Why are you here?” he asks, sounding much more standoffish than intended. He doesn’t apologize.

“I wanted to check on you,” she says, “we haven’t had a chance to talk for a while.”

“Yeah,” he says, unsure of what to say. For the first week Maddie came back, he spent every spare second with her, trying to make up for lost time. They shared everything at once, giving a twelve year highlight reel of their lives, Maddie’s being, admittedly, much more intense. Every day since then, every conversation has been just slightly off. An awkward weight he’s never had to carry around her. 

It’s been forty-two days since Maddie came back. He’s never felt further away. 

There’s so much he wants to say. But most of it won’t make sense, and the rest of it will hurt like hell. 

“So, how’s your video project going?” she says, trying to break the ice and ease into something easier.

“It’s fine,” he lies. He's struggling, but it’s fine. Chimney can tell her the truth later—he’s not known for being secretive. 

“I’m glad,” Maddie says, turning to face him, “Karen was excited when you said yes. She knew you’d be the right fit.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He turns his head down, knocking his hands against the railing.

“Thanks,” Buck says, and it’s not the right thing to say, but it’s the only word that comes to mind other than  _ ‘sorry’ _ .

“I should head out. Your shift’s over too,” she taps his arm lightly, “You should really go home, too.”

“I’m okay,” he says, nodding, “I think I’ll stay here a little longer.” 

The sun’s almost completely fallen, but the night’s still early. He should go, spend his evening living free. Find a bar, find a date, make an effort to exist. It’s easy to be young, do something reckless and call it fun. 

But Maddie smiles and walks to her car, driving far, until she’s gone. And he’s still outside the space center, staring at the space where the sun used to stand. If he stays long enough, he might see the stars, distant and bright in all their glory. 

He walks inside instead, and stares at them through a monitor. 

_____

Maddie left hours ago. He’s been at the space center nearly twenty-four hours, running on nerves and cold coffee. 

Even in the dead of night, mission control is still alive. Muted and slowed, but still alive. The chatter in the room softened and most of the desks stood empty. The ISS crew is out for the night, there’s no need to keep all of mission control at work while they sleep. He sits at his own desk, working on nothing in particular. He can hear Chimney typing away at the desk to his left. 

His computer beeps. He instantly sighs.

_ HAN [01:32]: buckaroo. _

_ HAN [01:33]: buckaroooooo. _

_ HAN [01:33]: can you do me a favor? _

“Chim,” he says, leaning back in his chair, “we’ve talked about this.”

“It always gets your attention,” he says, pushing his chair back, away from his desk. “And it’s funny.”

He ignores the satisfied grin on his face. “What’d you need?”

Chimney gestures across the room toward one of the many empty desks. “I left my phone on Maddie’s desk earlier, can you go grab it for me?”

“Chim,” he says, staring, “it takes ten seconds to walk over there. You can get it yourself.”

He holds his hands out, shrugging. “I’m a busy man.”

Buck rolls his chair over to Chimney’s desk. “You’re staring at a blank page,” he gestures to the screen. “Is your job really this easy?” he asks, scrunching his brows together.

“Hey, I didn’t go through all those years of Med school and residency just for you to call my job easy,” Chimney points. He pushes Buck’s chair back to his desk with his foot. “Please?”

Buck rolls his eyes and stands. “Fine. But only because I’m bored and have nothing better to do.”

He walks fast to exaggerate his point, his long legs carrying him in just a few strides. Nobody bothers to look up as he moves, taking no note of the strange gestures they’re exchanging. Chimney gives him a thumbs up from across the room, and he rolls his eyes, throwing a hand in the air. 

Maddie’s desk is neat, not surprising. It doesn’t take long to find his phone on top of a stack of papers. Pens roll around as he grabs the phone, waving it in the air as he turns to Chimney, who smiles, incredibly satisfied with himself and the mini-mission he managed to set Buck on. 

He’s about to leave, ready to drop the phone on Chimney’s desk dramatically and drag the moment on too long out of boredom. But the screen of Maddie’s monitor lights up, and he can’t help but scrunch his face in confusion. There’s a soft humming sound he can’t identify. It rings for a few moments before falling into silence, only to repeat the noise once more. 

Buck looks to the monitor, but the noise is coming from something else. He glances around the top of the desk, shuffling papers around, before opening the top drawer. The noise amplifies instantly, and he spots Maddie’s earpiece. He holds it to his ear and finds a voice on the other side of the line.

_ “Capcom? Houston? Does anyone copy?” _

He recognizes the voice instantly, having heard it on repeat everyday since Karen gave him his assignment. Eddie sounds calm, but that doesn’t say much. He could be suffocating and still sound calm. Buck looks to Chimney, who’s thoroughly confused by the commotion, before turning back to the desk and pulling out Maddie’s chair. 

“I’m here, I’m—yeah, copy.” He says into the earpiece, trying to gain his bearings. Buck sits down quickly, powering up the other computers, and shoving the earpiece in his ear. “Is everything alright?”

“...Unsure.”

“Okay,” Buck readjusts the microphone in front of his face. This isn’t his job. His job is to listen, to fix things, to keep everything afloat. He talks, but it’s not his job to talk. He improvises. “The crew should be sleeping. Any reason you’re up so late?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Eddie says. “Good thing I’m awake, because one of the rovers we were testing earlier is...acting up.”

Buck scrunches his brows together, tilting his head. “Okay, care to explain?”

“It turned on on it’s own and it keeps trying to roll around the desk. Which is very difficult to do without gravity, so it’s less rolling and more floating and hissing.” It’s not a joke, but Buck still smiles at his tone. “I’m looking at the mechanics and nothing seems wrong, but it’s starting to overheat. And I really don’t wanna start another fire.”

“Are you sure?” Buck asks.

“About the fire? Yeah, pretty sure.”

“No,” Buck laughs. He shouldn’t, but he does, “about the mechanics.”

Eddie hesitates for a moment, “Like 80 per cent. That’s why I called Houston.”

Buck solves problems, that’s what he does. To him, there’s always a solution, always an option. Which is why he’s almost certain he can help. “Well it might not be a hardware issue. It could be the programming. I can check it remotely, try to fix things on this end.”

He starts opening up programs on Maddie’s computer, running through the software. He’s not a computer scientist by any means, but looking around the room, he can’t find someone better to help. 

Chimney appears next to him, arms up. “What’s the hold up?”

Buck shrugs back, eyes wide. He covers the mic with his hand, moving his other arm in the air. “I don’t know what’s happening.” He gestures to the screen before going back to work. Chimney hooks the chair at the next desk with his foot, pulling it next to Buck and sitting down. He grabs another earpiece and hooks it up to the computer so he can listen.

“Y’know, usually Maddie’s the one on the comms,” Eddie breaks the silence after a moment, “She’s the only one from mission control who talks to us.”

_ “Is that Eddie?”  _ Chimney mouths. Buck pulls a finger to his face, shushing him quickly, still staring at the screen. He mutes his mic, but keeps the earpiece in, listening to Buck and Eddie’s conversation

“Sorry to disappoint,” he says, “She’s not here right now and uh— I’m your only option, I guess. Unless you want the doctor to try and engineer this for you.” Chimney slaps his arm lightly. 

“No I—” Eddie laughs, “—I wasn’t complaining. I just… this is the first time I’ve seen you. Or talked to you.” Buck can’t stop the smile from lifting on his face. But it’s bittersweet, knowing the reason they’ve never talked is because Buck’s never made the effort. 

“Yeah, but I’ve seen you before,” he says, closing his eyes as he notices the phrasing. Chimney laughs beside him. “Sorry. Super weird thing to say to someone you just met.”

“No, no it’s okay,” Eddie laughs again. “I mean, you guys see us everyday. But I’ve only met, like, three of you guys.” There’s shuffling on the other end of the line, he doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Well now you’ve met four,” he says. He cringes at his own words, he can’t tell if it’s the wrong thing to say or if he’s overthinking. 

“Have we met?” Eddie asks quickly. “I mean, you never told me your name.”

It’s awkward and stiff but he carries through, more focused on the coding dragging across the screen than the words coming out of his mouth. “I’m Buck.”

“Eddie,” he says, “but you already knew that.”

He can’t help but smile. “Right,” he says. He likes talking, he likes listening to Eddie, even if it’s just to solve a problem. He’s scared to let the conversation lull, let the air fall quiet. So he does what he does best. He talks. “You’re right. This...this isn’t usually my job. Usually Maddie would talk while an engineer or someone tries to fix everything,” he says. It’s nothing Eddie doesn’t already know, but still he listens. “She’s probably much more calm and reassuring than I am, though.”

“I think you’re doing a pretty good job. I’m not dead yet,” he says. It’s the same dry humor he’s heard in every video. It’s almost strange to hear it in real time. 

“I don’t think that was ever really a risk,” he says, “but I’ll try to keep it that way.”

Now it’s Eddie’s turn to fill the silence. “So, if this isn’t your job, then what is?”

For a moment his mind goes blank. He knows the answer, obviously, but he’s too caught up in Eddie’s words and the programming to form a sentence. “Ground controller. It’s mostly maintenance and operations,” he supplies after a moment.  _ And watching and taking notes on your personal video journals in a totally non-invasive way, professional way.  _ “...amongst other things.”

“It stopped,” Eddie says, pulling Buck back to the present problem, “I think you fixed it.” He’s almost disappointed. 

“Yeah,” he sighs, “happy to help.”

The line goes quiet, and for a moment he’s convinced Eddie hung up.

“Hey Buck?” he says, reaching out after a moment. 

“Hm?”

“I know this isn’t your job,” he pauses, “but for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re the one who answered.”

The heat rises to Buck’s face at the complement. He bites his lip to stop himself from smiling too wide. “I, uh—thanks,” he stutters out, “Anytime.” 

The line goes dead, and he takes the earpiece out, dropping it back in Maddie’s top drawer before shutting down the computers.

“Wow,” Chimney breathes out, making Buck jump. He forgot he was there, listening beside him. He’s holding his own earpiece in his hand, twisting back and forth in his chair, with a grin pressed to his face. 

Buck’s eyes shift to the side. He fidgets with his hands, leaning forward in the chair slightly. “What?”

“I just—wow. That was  _ terrible  _ to listen to,” Chimney shakes his head, gesturing with one hand. “I told you to say ‘hi’ to him, y’know, small talk. Not laugh at his bad jokes and fix a rover for him.”

Buck stands, pushing the chair in and throwing Chimney’s phone at his lap. He moves the papers and pens back in place before walking to his own desk. He can hear footsteps behind him, following him.

“You said to reach out, that’s exactly what I did,” he says, sitting back at his own desk. 

“You were right about what you said earlier,” Chimney says. Buck leans back to look at him, “you  _ are  _ bad at talking to hot astronauts.” He grabs a pen off his desk and throws it at Chimney, who laughs, before returning to his work, mumbling another joke under his breath. 

Buck turns back to the computer and opens the chat box. He’s no longer trying to make a first impression, all he has to do is talk. He types his message quick and presses send even faster, not allowing himself the opportunity to back out. He can’t help but stare at the screen, waiting for a response. 

_ BUCKLEY [02:14]: i’m here, in case you ever break another rover. or start another fire _

_ BUCKLEY [02:14]: or maybe if you just need to talk _

_ …  _

_ DIAZ [02:17]: Thank you, Buck. _

_ DIAZ [02:17]: For the record, I did not start the fire. _

_ …  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr @maysgrant


	7. Homing Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eddie needs to talk to Lena. No sharp comments, no pointed words, he just needs to—_
> 
> _“Did I piss you off or something?”_
> 
> _—Poor choice of words. The regret spills over him before the words leave his mouth._

_ DAY 45: _

_ First I was a soldier. Then I became an astronaut. I was a firefighter for, like, a day.  _

_ And now I’m a farmer.  _

_ Who would’ve thought? An astro-farmer. Growing lettuce in space.  _

_ The idea is that if we can grow food here, we can grow it on Mars. Kind of important. But hopefully we figure out how to grow more than just lettuce before then. I think the Mars crew would appreciate having more options than just freeze-dried ice cream and dry salads.  _

_ I’m letting Hen take the lead on this one. I can’t even keep a garden on Earth, there’s no way. If I touch that plant, it’ll die. She’s better at bio, anyways.  _

_ Enough about lettuce, though…  _

____

Eddie laughs as his computer beeps, reading Buck’s message, sent almost immediately after the video delivered.

BUCKLEY [09:33]: are you just trying to build a whole resume up there ?

DIAZ [09: 34]: If being an astronaut doesn’t work out I need to know my options. 

DIAZ [09: 34]: You can never be too prepared.

BUCKLEY [09:36]: well, farmer diaz does have a nice ring to it

BUCKLEY [09:36]: though i think i prefer astronaut diaz

He smiles at the message, something so unintentionally sweet. There’s a tapping on the wall, a pseudo ‘knock at the door’, before he can reply. He shuts his laptop and turns around to see Bobby, gripping onto the ceiling with one hand for support. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,”

“No, no you didn’t. Just wasn’t expecting you. Is everything alright?”

“We’re just sorting through some of our supplies. If you’re not busy…”

“Yeah, I’ll be right over.”

“Thanks,” he says, but he doesn’t return to the rest of the crew. His stare lingers as Eddie stands up.

“Is… there something else you needed Cap?”

He gestures to Eddie’s laptop. “I was skeptical about those video journals at first. Didn’t see the point. But, uh,” he twists his watch and readjusts his grip before smiling, just slightly, “I’m glad to see they’re helping you.”

He tries to keep a neutral expression, but can’t stop the corner of his mouth from turning, ever just. “Yeah, me too.”

It’s only been a few days since that first call, since that initial contact with Houston, but the conversations were easy, he never has to explain himself or try to justify his choices. Maybe it’s because Buck already knows forty-five days worth of journal entries about him. He’s read Eddie’s file, he’s seen him work, seen his face. He already knows more about him than most.

He looks back to his laptop and considers sending one last message, a ‘thank you’ or a ‘gotta work, talk later’, but he decides it’s not necessary. Buck knows he’s busy, he understands the job better than most. He knows of the odd schedules and science experiments and the conversations that are too short and too far and in between. 

Eddie leaves his desk behind to join his crew. Buck would understand, it’s his job to be there when Eddie wants to talk, and say nothing when he doesn’t. He tries to remind himself that Buck isn’t an old friend or a family he’s calling home to. Buck is doing his job, just as Eddie is doing his. 

_ It’s his job _ , he reminds himself.

_ It’s not personal.  _

____

_ DAY 61: _

_ I’ve decided it’s easier to talk, knowing somebody’s on the other side. There’s some accountability to it. I can’t be a total idiot, but at the same time it’s my diary and I can do what I want with it.  _

_ Right now, I want to complain. _

_ In training, my… friends and I always talked about how much it would suck to be stuck with a crew you hate. You’re with them for six months, maybe longer, and you just can’t stand each other. Ironic how I got stuck in that exact situation. _

_ I get along with everyone up here except… I just can’t seem to understand Lena. She hates me for being here, for replacing their fourth. It’s not like I can leave, catch a ride back to Earth.  _

_ I don’t even know who their fourth was. I tried asking Hen, but she just told me to talk to Lena. Somehow, I don’t think she’s gonna want to talk. I don’t think I wanna talk either. _

____

Eddie debates pressing send for a moment. He’s used the videos for reports. He’s beamed about Chris and his sisters, he’s explained his bad days and his highlights. But not once has he complained, not really. 

He’s allowed to complain. It’s a diary, he can complain. It’s been over two weeks since that first conversation. Buck wouldn’t judge. He can complain.

But the guilt still settles as he presses send. 

“Word of advice,” Hen says, leaning against the door. He jumps at the sound and lowers his laptop lid, “you might wanna close your door before you start filming those things.”

He takes a deep breath, opening up his laptop again, “How long were you…”

“Long enough to hear you say you’re ignoring me.” She crosses her arms, hooking her feet on the floor to keep herself in place. “Not a smart move. I said talk to her, not talk behind her back.”

“I don’t need to talk to her,” Eddie says, not denying the latter statement. He’s avoiding her, he gets that. It’s easier than waging war on a space shuttle and slipping into a preventable argument.

“Yes. You do,” Hen says, adjusting her grip, “You might be okay with pushing it down and moving on, but it’s insufferable to be around you two. Talk it out.” She pushes away, but pauses before she fully leaves, “Don’t make me ask you again.”

He hadn’t considered the crew. They’re a team, but they’re too disjointed for it to truly feel like a camaraderie. It’s pointed words and occasional card games and silently working side by side. It’s nothing like training. In training he had Ali and Sal and Tommy, all willing to help him without ever being asked. They worked together, laughed together, and genuinely enjoyed the presence of one another. 

The Air Force was similar, they knew what it meant to be a team. It was a forced camaraderie, but still, it was true. They watched each other’s backs, kept each other alive. That’s what it means to be part of a team.

This isn’t a team, it’s too distant, too selfish. Lena in all her silent anger, Eddie in his quiet confusion, and Hen and Bobby forced to watch it all burn.

Hen is right, as she usually is.

_____

Eddie needs to talk to Lena. No sharp comments, no pointed words, he just needs to—

_ “Did I piss you off or something?” _

—Poor choice of words. The regret spills over him before the words leave his mouth. 

She sighs and turns away from her work, replying too fast for Eddie to try and backtrack. “Really?”

“That’s not what I—” he sighs “—I’m not supposed to be here,” he admits, trying to salvage a broken conversation, “I get that. I’m the backup.”

Lena turns her back again, trying to continue her work, still engaging in the conversation. “You’re a cheap replacement.” The ‘no sharp comments’ promise didn’t last long. 

“I didn’t choose to be here.”

“You did, though,” she stands to face him, “you did choose. You chose to come here  _ right  _ as you finished your training.” Her voice raises, only just. It’s icy and it bites. “You could’ve said no, you would’ve had other chances. You just didn’t want to.” Lena almost laughs, it’s a bitter sound.

He did make a choice. Hesitantly, but he made it. 

“Someone else would’ve replaced me,” he deflects. “You would’ve hated whoever came next.”

“I don’t hate you,” she reassures, though it’s not comforting, her words still laced with a sharp edge. “But I would rather have just about anyone else up here with me. Someone with actual experience.”

“I know what I’m doing.” It’s an immediate response. A defensive tact. It’s the wrong response.

“No,” Lena snarls, filled with spite, “no, you don’t. You’re not qualified to replace—” she cuts herself off, head twisting to the side. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Her lips draw tight as she points and steps back. “I have actual work to do. So if you’re done.” She practically  _ shoos _ him away, regaining her cool composure, before sitting back down, typing away at her laptop.

He should’ve stopped. Should’ve walked away. He should’ve—

“You’re insufferable,” he says, soft yet filled with bitterness. It’s everything he’s wanted to say, ever outburst he’s held back, slowly spilling, falling through the cracks.

Lena stops typing and looks up, but still doesn’t look to Eddie. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Because you haven’t told me anything.”

“Because you haven’t asked.”

“Well you don’t know me either.”

“I know you have a nine year old son waiting for you at home. You’ve never mentioned a wife, so I assume his mom isn’t around. I know you were in the Air Force, got a fancy medal and everything, so congrats.” “That part I read in your file. You talk and I listen, even if you’re not talking at me.”

“I can’t read your file.”

“But you can ask questions. You just choose not to.”

Eddie’s still seething, but holds back the words  _ you never ask questions either  _ and  _ it takes two to have a conversation,  _ but he holds his tongue before he can say something he’ll regret, making a bad situation ultimately worse. 

(It would be  _ very  _ unfortunate to get kicked off the shuttle for explosive arguing).

He tries to storm away, he really does, but the lack of gravity makes it hard to truly stomp, so he opts for a sigh as he pulls himself away and returns to the tiny pod of his ‘bedroom’. 

Eddie reaches for his laptop, opening the chat box. He reaches for Buck like it’s instinct, like it’s programming or training. He’s conditioned himself to find comfort in the chat box on his screen and an anonymous voice. 

He was always curious about who was on the other side of his cursor. It was scientific, more than anything, trying to find an answer to something that was never a problem. Curiosity. Nothing more. 

It became more. It became more the moment he left his pod to take a ‘walk’ and found some experimental tech on the fritz. A prototype rover, whirring across his desk, as if it was asking Eddie for help. It became more the moment he realized he didn’t have the knowledge to fix this tiny, unnamed rover. It became more the moment he asked for help. He struggled to say the exact words ‘help me’, but calling for Maddie seemed to be close enough. 

Houston answered, but it wasn’t Maddie on the other side. Houston answered, and he’s never been so thankful to not recognize a voice. 

Maddie is a constant in the crew's life, always being the one to relay messages and offer support from the other side. Her empathy is endless and always reassuring. But Maddie didn’t answer.

Buck answered.  _ “I’m here,” _ he said, so simply. That was over two weeks ago. He’s been there ever since. 

_ It’s his job to talk to you,  _ he insists. He tries to ignore.

Eddie reaches for the keyboard and types a single message.

_ DIAZ [05:14]: Can we talk? _

It’s late, Eddie isn’t expecting a reply. He’s reaching in the dark, hoping for an answer, but expecting nothing. But the reply is almost instant, as if Buck was only waiting for him to reach. 

_ BUCKLEY [5:14]: yeah, what’s up? _

Eddie types his thoughts over and over again, deleting words, rearranging phrases, trying to make sense of it all, but he can’t find a good way to say what he means. He sends a shorter message instead. 

_ DIAZ [05:15]: No I mean _

_ DIAZ [05:15]: Actually talk. On comms. _

There’s no reply. No typing. Silence. And it immediately sticks in his head. It’s not his job to call, it’s his job to send a text and move on. He shouldn’t have asked, should’ve have expected—

“—Houston to ISS, you copy?” Eddie’s earpiece buzzes on the desk. He asked Buck to call but the answer still shocked him. For a moment he just stares, stares at the object with disbelief and shock, but the sound on the other side still calmed him, almost instantly, without ever lifting the piece to his ear. 

He fumbles with the microphone for a moment, still shocked that he actually answered, before finally replying. 

“Hi,” he says, regaining the slightest composure. 

“Hi,” Buck says. He can hear him smiling. “Is, uh—is everything alright? If it’s another technical issue, Maddie’s here. I can go grab her and we can—”

“—No, it’s not—” he pauses, both of them fumbling through the words, “—it’s not that.” His sentence hangs. Buck waits for a response that never comes, silent as Eddie pieces it together. He never does, he never speaks. 

The pause lingers. 

“Do you wanna talk about something?” Buck asks after a moment. There’s no judgement. He’s open. He’s listening.

“No,” he admits.

Buck laughs but it’s kind. “You called because you don’t wanna talk?”

He scrunches his face, though Buck can’t see it. “I guess?”

“Okay…” Buck pauses. The line goes quiet. “Why don’t I talk, and you can just listen.”

He scrunches his brows, tilts his head slightly. He wasn’t expecting his non-conversation to lead to anything.

It’s Bucks job, he reminds himself. It’s his job to listen and respond. But here he is, offering to talk about himself instead. A simple gesture that crashes into him, leaving him speechless. 

It’s not his job, but Buck doesn’t seem to care. He talks. And Eddie allows himself to just listen. 

He talks about Chimney, who was appalled to find out that Buck has never seen The Martian, or any other Matt Damon movie  _ or  _ space drama for that matter. 

He talks about Maddie, saying that things have been off between them for a while and he doesn’t know how to fix it. 

He talks about the stray cat outside his apartment, the tabby with a missing ear, for whom he’s started leaving food for  _ (“I can’t name her because what if she already has a name, I don’t wanna insult her”). _

He talks about nothing, but it means everything. Buck, who was willing to stop whatever he was doing just because Eddie asked. Buck, who always listened when he needed it and filled the gaps between conversations. Buck, who he barely knows, but finds himself wanting to learn. 

Eddie hasn’t been so fascinated by someone since he met Shannon, yellow and bright without a care in the world. She stood her ground and lit a fire, but eventually burned off, leaving smoke trails in her wake. Buck isn’t burning, he’s just warm. A comforting voice and a place to land, someone safe, someone true. 

He’s only heard him speak. To him, Buck is just a voice, a homing signal, but it’s enough. It’s more than enough. 

“Buck?” he interrupts the soft lull that washed over between topics. 

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t have to answer,” he says. A  _ thank you _ sits on the tip of his tongue.

“I know,” Buck says, “but I wanted to.”

_ I wanted to.  _

He bites back a smile at the words, ignoring the way his heart skips. Buck’s always there. He has to be. But he wants to be. He  _ wants _ to be. 

And Eddie  _ wants _ too.


	8. Cold Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the first video, only a minute and fifteen seconds long, Buck found himself so intrigued by Eddie. He heard Karen and Lena’s opinion of him, neither of which matched his file. And his file, the soldier, the astronaut, didn’t match the Eddie on his screen: hard edges, strong form, but with a gentle presence to juxtapose it all. 
> 
> Eddie spoke and no other opinion mattered. He formed his own opinion of Eddie from the first day.

It’s been 85 days since Buck joined mission control. He walked into the space center and found Maddie hovering near the door, waiting, knowing he would be there.

It’s been 82 days since the initial launch, since the Vulture Program crept into full swing. He saw the capsule launch and cheered with the rest of Houston and the crew successfully boarded the ISS. 

It’s been 40 days since the first call with Eddie, fixing the rover, and every message since has sent his heart racing in a way he’s never known. 

He has no right, his chest has no right to constrict and skip the way it is. Eddie doesn’t know him, just as Buck doesn’t know Eddie. Not really. They know _about_ each other, obscure details and random stories. Eddie can’t keep a plant alive to save his life, but _God_ , does he know how to bake _(“Baking is exact, it’s a list of instructions. There’s no rules to cooking. Or gardening.”)._ He knows the first time Eddie snuck out of the house was when he was sixteen; his friends convinced him to go on a late night hike miles from El Paso—an adventure, something _spontaneous_ —that left him aching for more. And he knows Eddie used to braid his sisters’ hair. The plaits were never perfect, far from it, but neither girl would dare to untangle the strands. 

He always smiled at the fondness in Eddie’s voice whenever he mentioned his sisters, trying not to let his own hurt feelings rise. From his descriptions, Buck assumed they were no less than goddesses. Sophia and her love of nicknames and one-liners, always the first to offer a helping hand, and Adriana, fiercely protective (and teasing), encouraging Eddie from day one to never turn away from his dream. They’re the two self-assured women who practically dragged him to Houston and kicked him through the front doors of the space center, for which Buck will always be grateful. 

It’s the kind of support system Buck never had, and envies Eddie for having. He had his sister, then one day he didn’t. He moved forward, switching between paths, each with their own separate destination, but he couldn’t help himself from turning around every so often, hoping Maddie would follow, or at least walk a parallel path, close enough to keep in touch. 

He hates himself for it. For resenting Maddie for leaving, for still being bitter even though she came back. She was trapped in a marriage, silently fighting, searching for an escape. She fought and she won her freedom, while Doug won himself twenty-four years in prison and a divorce. 

He hates himself for being angry. She was stuck, but she never even _tried_ to reach him. He tried for twelve years. She stopped trying after two weeks. He has no right to this bitterness, but still it seeps. 

But she came back. Maddie came back, she’s in Houston, she’s here with him. She’s been in Houston for two years, Doug’s been gone for two years. Yet he was still the one to find her. Maddie came back, but only because he found her, calling up to space, miles and miles away, when she couldn’t even reach across the city for him. 

Maybe it's the distance. Or maybe it’s him. 

To Eddie, Buck is just a voice, surely. Someone to pass the time, distract him from the rising tension among the crew, or ask questions he still didn’t feel qualified to answer. Eddie might be the new guy among his crew, but Buck is still the new guy among his too.

The alarm clock rings, but he’s been awake for a while, dressed and ready, keys in hand, perched at the edge of the bed. Two rings, then it’s silent, the absence of noise louder than the incessant beeping. It’s quiet. It’s lonely. 

Three mugs hang in the kitchen. Only one is ever used. The right stove burner is scorched from endless nights of late meals. The left burner remains untouched. His apartment is fitted with hardwood floors. There’s scratches across the oak, only beneath the last barstool. They’re deeper than he remembers.

_Knock, Knock—_

—It’s disgustingly loud, breaking the tension he himself created.

Buck twists the handle, staring down at the porch where the cat usually sits, and turns his head to find the spot empty. He follows his gaze up to find Maddie—not a cat knocking at his door—hands curled in front of her chest, coat draped over her arm.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Maddie asks, reading his tired, dazed stare.

He looks down to the empty food dish on the porch, crushed bits of kibble spilling into the dirt. “…No.”

She twists her mouth and looks away. When she stares back up, she’s almost smiling. Almost. “Here, I brought you this,” Maddie says, handing over a cup. It’s a hot coffee mug, lid sealed tight, but it’s cold to the touch. “Iced coffee in a hot coffee mug. That way nobody can see how much cream and sugar you dump in there. The barista gave me a super weird look when I ordered it.”

He laughs, “Thanks.”

“Sorry if that’s not your order anymore. That’s how you always got it in high school.” She’s smiling brighter now, but his eyes fill with tears. 

“No, you got it right.” The coffee shop near their house was open twenty four hours. Maddie used to take him there to help him study, using her paycheck to buy him his gross coffee and explain the Krebs Cycle. She still remembered the drink (but he most _definitely_ does not remember anything about cellular respiration).

“Do you have a minute to talk before work?” she asks, peeling the tag off her own drink (always jasmine, never steeped longer than two minutes, if he remembers right).

He wordlessly responds by pushing the door in, making room for her to step into his space. Her gaze lingers on the walls, mostly barren. She’s quiet, shifting her feet, hardly looking at Buck.

“Just say it Mads,” he practically begs. Something, anything to break the air.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asks, softly.

“What?”

“I was so happy to see you again. We talked non-stop that first week you were back, but now?” her voice nearly breaks, but she takes a deep breath, “Now you barely talk to me at all.”

Buck can’t look at her, can hardly stand the guilt. He wants to interject, but he says nothing.

“I don’t think I can ever say sorry enough. I know I left you. I know I hurt you. You have every right to be mad at me. But,” she looks up, “but I don’t know how to make things better if you won’t even talk to me.”

He knows Maddie, knows that there’s probably a few stray tears tracing her cheeks, but he can’t bring himself to look. Instead he follows the wood panels with his eyes and scrapes his fingers down the side of his cup. 

If he starts to speak, he may crack, words pilling on top of one another, each laced with a new layer of regret. He’s not alone in this apartment, he can’t take back what he says. 

“Say something.” He does not. “Evan just—please, look at me.” He winces at the name. Nobody’s called him that in twelve years. But it draws his attention up, and he really wishes it hadn’t. 

“I don’t want to be mad at you. But I am.”

It’s the first crack in the wall.

“Evan—” she starts but he steps back

“Just, let me finish, okay?” Buck pauses, closing his eyes tight, trying to find the words to make his point, but not poke too deep. “I’m so mad at you, I _hate_ that you left, and I hate that you never came back.”

The next crack runs deeper, it tears through the floor. Splitting, breaking, and he can’t stop it.

“You know, I saved a seat for you at my graduation. All three of my graduations, actually.” He laughs, but it's seeped in bitterness. “The first time you weren’t there I was disappointed. But by the third time it was expected.”

She lifts one hand and steps forward. “I wanted to be there.”

“But you weren’t,” he immediately cuts in. Any remaining restraint he had has since left him. He slices deep, and he can’t fix it. 

“I tried to find you. For twelve years I tried to find you. And the entire time you were here, in Houston.” 

They’re both crying, still holding the cups that were once a peace offering. An almost-fond memory he promptly ruined by raising his voice.

“Doug—”

“—I know what he did, you don’t have to explain it again,” Buck shakes her off. “I won’t make you do that. But he’s been in prison for two years.” He looks into her eyes, still stinging with tears, the rest of his face fallen. “You had two years to reach out. And you never even tried.”

She tries to grab his arm, pull him to her level. “Buck—”

“I should go. I’m gonna be late,” he snaps away. He leaves his drink on the counter, swapping it for his keychain. 

“Buck—”

“Refill the cat dish on your way out, would you?”

The door slams; it’s the loudest the apartment has ever been. Maddie’s still crying, it’s all his fault. He warped her apology until it was all about him. She’s been through hell, but it burned him along the way.

She left. But this time he’s the one who’s leaving.

_____

Mission control is even louder than usual. More frantic, more shuffled. Images shifting across the giant monitor in front and footsteps echoing on concrete floors. 

It’s day 82. There’s 100 days left of the mission, and the crew is preparing for their first spacewalk. To test equipment in open space and make standard repairs. Nothing to worry about.

So naturally, he’s worried. 

Spacewalks aren’t dangerous, especially not one with such a standard objective. Eddie and Hen will go out and have tethers linking them to the shuttle the entire time they’re out. They’ll have oxygen and water and even an emergency jetpack to propel them back to the shuttle. If anything, the flight home is more dangerous than open space.

But Buck’s a scientist, naturally curious, following the never ending cycle of Wikipedia articles and research, and he led himself down a rabbit hole of danger; there was one astronaut who nearly drowned—yes, _drowned—_ because his helmet filled with water and he couldn’t call for help. 

_The first thing you should do when you find yourself in a hole is to stop digging._

Buck kept digging. 

_Soyuz 1. Soyuz 11. STS-107._

Dead, dead, dead. 

He shouldn’t be so worried. But it’s his first spacewalk. It’s _Eddie’s_ first spacewalk. Anything could happen, and for some reason it scares the hell out of him

Buck finds his desk, letting his keys clang against the surface. There’s an old coffee cup off to the side, drip marks stained down the sides of the cup. He moves to throw it away when he hears Chimney speak up from his desk.

“I’ll call you again after the space walk. Try to keep yourself in one piece until then,” Chimney laughs and his laptop. Buck drops his keys on his desk and turns to him. His monitor goes blank, but for a split second he sees—

"—Was that Eddie?" Buck asks.

“Sure was,” he says, unfazed by Buck’s presence. 

“You…” he gestures back and forth between him and the laptop, “You _Skype_ with Eddie?”

"Yeah, I'm his government assigned doctor for the next,” he pauses to check his wrist, despite not wearing a watch, “four months. Of course I Skype him. It’s a standard thing.” Chimney spins in his chair to face Buck. “Y’know, I really forget you’re new here sometimes."

Chimney and Eddie. It’s fine. He’s fine. Talking to him as his doctor. 

“Is he okay?” Buck asks, immediately concerned over why Eddie needs a virtual from-space doctor’s appointment.

“Patient confidentiality. Can't say. Relax, it’s a routine thing.” Chimney rests his elbow on the desk, dropping his jaw into one hand. “He’s still hot and healthy. Don’t look so stressed, your boy is fine.”

“He’s not—” Buck starts, but cuts off his own defense. _Your boy,_ technically he’s NASA’s boy. He switches topics quickly. “I’m mostly surprised to see you working. This might be the first time I’ve seen you write with a pen instead of throw it at me.” 

As if on queue, Chimney flings the pen towards Buck’s face. He swats it away and it bounces on the floor before settling beneath his chair. Buck takes his own chair and hooks it towards him with his ankle, sitting in front of his desk.

He deflects Buck’s change of topics, noticing the way he cut himself off before, and uses his own ankle to pull Buck’s chair to face Chimney. 

“Y’know, last time I talked to him was the first week of the mission. Just an initial check in, make sure there’s no space sickness or injuries or general poor health.” He crosses his arms and softly spins back and forth in his chair. “Him and Bosko were the fastest meetings, quick to burn through every question and mostly dodge all small talk.” Buck smiles slightly. Sounds about right, he remembers those early videos, barely a minute long. They were similar at first, the two of them. 

“But this time he seemed… better?” Chimney says with a head tilt, grabbing his drink off the desk. “Not exactly an open book, but he was more talkative than I’ve ever seen him. Happier.”

The thought never crossed his mind. Eddie was always fairly talkative with Buck, at least after that first call to Houston. 

When radioing down to all of mission control, he always holds an air of professionalism. The astronauts joke over comms, it’s what makes the mission enjoyable, but Eddie’s quips were always quieter, making Hen and Buck laugh, but phasing over everyone else. He dodges the personal and skips to easy conversation. 

He doesn’t avoid anything with Buck. If there’s a line to cross, it’s too reeled in for Buck to ever notice it. Eddie speaks freely just as Buck gives in return. 

“That’s… that’s good,” he says, trying to ignore the gears turning in his mind. Nearly three months in space. They’ve only spoken for a little over one. But it’s every day, even if it’s just a few words. 

He’s never met Eddie, not really at least. But it’s as if he already knows him. 

“It goes both ways,” Chimney says, taking a sip of his drink. 

“What do you mean?”

“You make fun of me and Maddie, but you should see yourself when you talk to Eddie.” He laughs. “You’re so lovestruck, it’s honestly gross to watch.”

It’s like a lock clicking in place in his head. He can’t bring himself to deny it. 

From the first video, only a minute and fifteen seconds long, Buck found himself so intrigued by Eddie. He heard Karen and Lena’s opinion of him, neither of which matched his file. And his file, the soldier, the astronaut, didn’t match the Eddie on his screen: hard edges, strong form, but with a gentle presence to juxtapose it all. 

He spoke and no other opinion mattered. He formed his own opinion of Eddie from the first day. 

“He doesn’t even know who I am,” Buck says after a moment. Chimney was teasing, he always is, but it struck an odd nerve, not in a way that hurt, but in a way that settled. He was there when Eddie first called, he was there when he sent his first message, convincing him to reach out. 

Chimney teases, but there’s always a bit of truth to it all.

But Chimney doesn’t know what’s happening in space, could never know, not really, if it goes both ways. 

“He knows your name.” Chimney says. “He knows your voice. He knows—”

“—But he doesn’t know my face.” It’s the first point he latches to, slipping into something defensive. “I just—we talk at work. Phone and text. For work. That’s all it is, I’m doing my job,” he says. It’s something he’s repeated time and time again, like a mantra. Buck is doing his job, just and Eddie is doing his. He’s attached himself to Eddie, but they’re both just doing a job. 

“I can’t—” he starts, _can’t let myself believe in more,_ “—I can’t take it further than that.”

“It goes both ways, Buck,” Chimney echoes his earlier tease. “Takes two to have a conversation.” He pulls his chair closer to Buck’s and uncrosses his arms. “Judging by how long those conversations are, I have to assume you talk about more than just work. Or he’s giving you a very, _very_ thorough report on his garden.” Buck smiles slightly, but Chimney’s reassurance is yet to settle in. 

“For the record, there’s nothing stopping you from showing your face.” He holds his arms out and shakes his head slightly, voice light. “It’s easy to set up a video call. Probably easier than the comms thing you’ve got going.”

“I can’t,” he says immediately, eyes down, watching the pen from earlier roll beneath Chimney’s chair.

“Can’t or won’t?”

 _Yes,_ is the short answer. _All of the above._

Eddie has a family, a son, people to come home to. Buck is not his people, he’s an employee taking orders from Karen, passing folders to his sister, and ignoring messages from Chimney. He could easily be switched out for some other employee and the conversations would still be the same. Someone would still be there to reach up while Eddie reaches down.

He _can’t_ get attached, not more than he already has. Under different circumstances, he would reach out, in a heartbeat. If he was the young college Buck, the bartender with a reputation, he’s certain he would have pursued Eddie. But he would have ruined things, woken up alone the next day, another notch on another bedpost. 

If Buck met him now, in person, on his own, not through a monitor at work, he’d still be hesitant, but it’d be a different kind of doubt. Not doubting if they’re interested in the same pursuit, but doubting if he could make it last. 

“What if I ruin things?” he asks softly. It’s sincere, breaking the teasing tone. Chimney shifts the question back to something more casual.

“Right, cause being six-foot-three of pure muscle is _such_ a turnoff.” He taps Buck on the arm with the back of his hand. “It’s a skype call, not a marriage proposal.”

_____

Hours later, Buck is still at work. He doesn’t have to be, he has no more work to get done, but being back in his apartment sounds worse than working late. Even when mission control is quiet, it’s never empty. The concrete floors, the flashing screens, the logos and emblems, it’s not homey, but it’s better than the alternative.

He opens his chat box, almost like a reflex. He’s bored, so he’ll talk to Eddie. Naturally.

_BUCKLEY [02:16]: hi_

Buck laughs at the short message, unsure of where he’s leading this conversation. He expects nothing, but of course Eddie delivers before he can even send a follow up.

_DIAZ [02:16]: ...Hi?_

_DIAZ [02:16]: I was just about to film my video._

_DIAZ [02:17]: Unless you have something you want to talk about?_

That shouldn’t make him smile, it really shouldn’t. He’s supposed to ask Eddie what _he_ wants to talk about, not the other way around. It’s his job to ask, to listen, not Eddie’s. Eddie’s supposed to take spacewalks and call his kid and grow space-food. He’s supposed to call Maddie when there’s problems, talk to Buck as a distraction, and Skype Chimney for his pseudo-doctor’s appointments. 

But Eddie asks him, not because he has to, but because he wants to.

_It goes both ways._

_BUCKLEY [02:19]: i have an idea_

_BUCKLEY [02:19]: which you can totally say no to, i won’t be offended_

_DIAZ [02:20]: Whatever you’re about to say, just remember, these chat logs are recorded._

_BUCKLEY [02:20]: shut up_

He hesitates for a moment, but types his message before he can change his mind.

_BUCKLEY [02:21]: instead of recording your video, we could do a video call_

_BUCKLEY [02:21]: which would also be recorded, so keep your mind out of the gutter_

He watches the dots appear and vanish. Appear and vanish. He immediately tries to back track, cut off whatever Eddie’s about to say with his own message. 

He closes his eyes when the monitor beeps, afraid to read whatever Eddie sent. But the beeping persists, a continual rhythm. Buck opens one eye and sees a call request. 

_Shit._

Buck scrambles to readjust the camera on his monitor, and tries to find his microphone. 

He expected to have a _little_ more time to prepare. Mentally, at least. 

Eddie said yes. He said _yes_ , in his own way at least. Chimney said _it's a skype call, not a marriage proposal_. 

It’s starting to feel like a marriage proposal. 

He shouldn’t care about how he looks, it’s a work call, it’s two a.m. But he adjusts his hair once more before accepting the call. 

Eddie appears on the screen and a thousand expressions flash across his face, an odd mix of shock, awe, and delight. He settles on a smile when he realizes Buck answered. Buck can’t help but smile back. 

“You answered,” Eddie says, almost surprised. His mouth sits slightly open, head tilted, eyes flickering between the camera and Bucks face as if he’s reading him, taking in every quirk of the mouth and scrunch of the face. 

Buck has had weeks to take note of every detail of Eddie; the way his nose scrunches when he laughs and eyes squint when he’s confused. Eddie has only had five seconds to take note of Buck, a speedrun in reading his tiniest expressions.

“You called.” Buck says, so simply. “It was _my_ idea, of course I answered.”

Eddie breathes out, it’s enough to break the ice. He goes on with his report, as if nothing’s changed, rattling off the work part quickly before slipping into an easier conversation. 

He expected awkward pauses and gaps, it’s what usually happens in first time face-to-face conversations. But if anything, it’s easier to talk to Eddie this way. He can link the inflections in his voice to a physical expression and it forces him to sink a little deeper in his intrigue. 

That’s what he’s still calling it. An intrigue in Eddie. An intrigue in all the little things that send him reeling every time.

Before, he categorized Eddie. Three versions, three phases. The soldier, the astronaut, and the unnamed version three. The person Lena sees, the person his file sees, the person he sees. Separate and unique, each in their own right. 

He did the same thing to himself. The student, the bartender, the engineer. 

But now it’s just Eddie. It’s Eddie talking to Buck. No prefixes, no leading terms. It’s every version, good and bad, to create the perfect blend of them.

It’s an intrigue. Just an intrigue. He won’t let it be more. 

There’s a lull. Not awkward, but quiet. Eddie frees him from it first.

“Buck,” he says, that’s all it takes to break the air.

“Yeah?”

“Why do you always answer when I call?” It’s not the question he expected, but the answer is simple, regardless. 

“Because it’s you,” he says, “I have to.” Eddie’s eyebrows scrunch and he shakes his head.

“No I mean,” Eddie shifts his hands, looks down before wandering back to the camera, “you _always_ answer. It’s…” he checks his watch and sighs, “four a.m. in Houston.”

“Yeah, it is,” Buck starts. It’s his turn to tilt his head. “I don’t think I’m following…”

“You’re _always_ at mission control,” he says. Buck reads the implication and pushes it off.

“I mean, I take over time a lot. Which means I work late sometimes, but I’m not _always_ at mission control,” he defends. He looks away from the camera, doesn’t see the worry between the lines on Eddie’s face. “I do go to my apartment to sleep or whatever. I have a cat on the porch I gotta feed, after all.”

A cat. A tabby with one ear and no name. She always comes to Buck’s porch. Maybe he should let her in, buy a bed, make a home.

He smiles, but it’s distant. Eddie doesn’t take.

“It’s late, Buck,” he says, softly smiling. His grin is genuine but laced with concern. “I don’t want to keep you up. You should go home, get some sleep.”

“You’re not keeping me up, I like talking to you,” Buck says, “It’s, like, the best part of my job.”

He’ll blame the late hours for the honesty. He would’ve said it eventually, but just not tonight.

“I’ll still be here when you come back to work tomorrow. Today, I guess.”

“Eddie—”

“Seriously, go home,” he says. It’s almost desperate. 

_Take care of yourself,_ he reads between the lines and wonders if he’s reading too deep. But it’s Eddie, he’d be begging for the same if the roles were reversed. So for once he gives up, gives in. 

“Okay,” he says, sincere and true. 

“Okay?” As if he expected an argument, a fight. But this isn’t something to fight for. _I care,_ is all he can hear, and he lets it wash over completely.

“Yeah, I’ll go,” Buck smiles. “Only because you asked so nicely.”

Eddie takes the answer, but waits for Buck to end the call. 

It’s easy, after that, to leave. He’s content to face the silence of his apartment, if only for the night, because he’s not doing it for himself. He’s doing it for Eddie. 

For once he sleeps, and waits for the alarm to wake him up.


	9. Gas Leaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’ve got a problem.”
> 
> Never a good thing to hear in space. The last time Bobby said that, there was a fire (the smoke still lingers in the main cabin).
> 
> “Is it the kind of problem that can be ignored for a few minutes?” Lena asks. “Because we’re kind of in the middle of something back here.”

_ DAY 85 _

Usually it’s troubling to hear from mission control at two a.m, especially when the message reads ‘ _ I have an idea’  _ with absolutely no context provided. Good ideas are rarely born at two a.m, with the exception of Eddie calling Buck. The first call of many started at two a.m. The calls often drift into the late nights where Eddie would pass over Houston, a constant rotation, one sunset bleeding into the next, every sunrise slipping too fast to watch. Buck always answers, just as the sun always falls.

Buck is the exception. Always.

He tries to remind himself that this is part of Buck’s job, to call, to comfort. But Buck never mentions the rest of the crew, and the crew never mentions speaking to Buck. Eddie calls and Buck answers. He’s the only one who calls mission control and makes it personal. Bobby calls Maddie and Karen for the sake of the mission, Eddie calls Buck for his own sake. He might be the only one who does. 

Eddie calls his sisters. He calls Chirs and it kills him to think of all the moments he’s missing. He’ll call him on his birthday, but it’s not the same as being there. 

His sisters are saints for all that they’ve done, but there are still things they wouldn’t understand. They’re family, and sometimes that’s just too close to be of comfort. 

Buck is close in a different way. He’s been in space nearly three months, known Buck for barely two, but he’s built a camp in Eddie’s life, and he refuses to let Buck go so soon. 

He’s quick to start the video call as soon as Buck mentions the idea. The ringing is deafening, at least to him, and he’s left staring at his own reflection as he waits. 

_ Ring, ring. _

All the texts, all the calls, and he’s only just realized he has no idea what Buck looks like. Buck’s seen Eddie’s face time and time again, but never has it gone the other way. Somehow it never mattered, still doesn’t matter, but the nerves settle, regardless. 

_ Ring, ring. _

It’s a first meeting of sorts, a peak into a world in which they met face to face rather than over the phone. A warped reality, but it’s as close as they’ll ever get to a normal first encounter. 

Eddie already knows Buck, but still he shakes. He knows of his sister and the distance between them; the Maddie he knows is different from the one Buck remembers, and he can only hope the two versions will meet. He knows the simple facts, he was a bartender, a student, who spent a long time wandering before settling in Houston, a decision he’ll have to thank Buck for later. 

_ Ring, ring. _

He can read between the lines, dig a little deeper than he should, use his deductions to make assumptions, but he holds back from digging, sinking too deep, and hopes Buck will let it all surface on his own. 

The last ring echoes, his heart beats a little faster than it should. He reaches for the chain around his neck. He traces the indents of the pendants, hoping to slow the world if just for a moment.

There’s a beat, between the echo and when Buck answers, where he hesitates. It would be easy to end the call and blame a poor connection. He could sit back into something comfortable, texts and calls, nothing more. Let worry win, let excitement subside.

But then he sees Buck, and it all clicks into place. 

He expects anxiety, but something else settles instead. For once he can see Buck, see every little expression and every soft smile he swore he could hear. He matches his voice so well; it hardly feels like a reveal. It’s just another day, not the major shift he expected. It’s just him and Buck and everything is right.

“You answered,” he breathes out. 

“You called,” Buck returns, as if there’s no world in which he wouldn’t. 

It’s far too easy to fall into something familiar, and easy conversation as they’ve always done, only this time Buck could catch Eddie staring if he wanted. He tries to take it all in, commit every tiny detail to memory, every seemingly insignificant glace weaving into his head. It’s Buck, therefore it’s significant to him. 

The hours pass and suddenly it’s four a.m. He’d talk for hours more if he could.

“Buck,” he says, finding a lull to let his thoughts surface.

“Yeah?”

“Why do you always answer when I call?” 

It’s Buck’s job to call, but it’s not his job to stay on the line until four a.m. It’s his job to wait, to listen and wait. To lend a hand and lend an ear, maybe reach a little further if he’s so inclined. It’s his job to sit inside a message box and wait until he’s needed. 

Eddie doesn’t need him. But  _ God _ , does he want him.

He hasn’t wanted anyone, not for years. He wanted Shannon, he saw Shannon and fell for her appearance, the way she radiated confidence and grace. Eddie was drawn to the surface, but never let himself pull deeper, reach beyond the obvious. 

Eddie wanted Buck long before he saw his face. He had already fallen, the blue eyes and sandy curls were just a lovely bonus.

“Because it’s you,” Buck says, almost instantly, “I have to.”

Three words, just enough to take him aback. For a moment he thinks, he lets himself believe, that maybe the wanting goes both ways. 

He lets Buck go, forces him to go home, find rest. It’s the only way he knows how to say those three words back. 

Eddie’s never been so happy to have someone hang up on him.

_____

_ DAY 96 _

_ Happy birthday Chris! I hope you’re having the best day with Adriana and Sophia. I filmed this before I left, but I just know the current-me wants nothing more than to be there with you. I can see you from all the way up here. Just know that I’m always thinking about you, and I’ll be counting the days until I can come home to you. _

_ You have no idea how much I miss you, kid. _

_____

He saved the video to Adriana’s phone long before he left, as well as stash an already wrapped lego set under her bed. 

Houston is brighter than usual, the glow illuminates his window and leaves behind a trace of what he’s missing. 

It’s what he’s always wanted, to see his home from above, to peer at the stars up close. But the guilt still settles. He lets the tears fall free.

The card still sits on his desk, he wouldn’t dream of moving it. It’ll sit on his desk, creases, tears and all, until the day he leaves. And when he comes home, he’ll hang it on his wall, find a place for it among the drawings and notes he’s left behind. 

“Happy birthday, kid,” Eddie whispers, holding the dog tag, pressing it tight into his palm. He’s a little lost, though he promised he wouldn’t be. Maybe the tag will bring him home, light the path. It’ll find it’s matching set and drag him along with it. 

He loves the station, loves his work. The dog tag rings against his chest, clanging against the pendant.

He loves his kid more. 

_____

_ DAY 101 _

“Are you nervous?” Buck asks. It’s the morning of the spacewalk, the whole crew is in high motion trying to prepare. He has an hour before him and Hen need to get in the airlock and prepare for their mission, so he fills the time with one last Skype call to Buck.

“No,” he says. It’s mostly true. “Should I be?”

“No, no, you’ll be fine,” he says, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Oh, really?” Eddie smiles, raising his brow, lightly teasing. “Did you decide that before or after your research spiral.”

Knowing Buck, there was definitely a research spiral.

“There wasn’t a research spiral.”

“Oh?”

“It was more of an endless pit than a spiral.” He laughs at the comment and allows Buck to descend into the void of random facts. He kindly avoided the stories of missions gone wrong and leaned into humor, pulling random quotes from the moon landing or facts about the ISS that Eddie already knew, but let Buck indulge anyways. 

He might not be  _ nervous  _ for the spacewalk, but Buck is still a welcome distraction from the mission. There’s dozens of ways it could all end wrong, but he lets himself focus on Buck, soft voice, big smiles and all. 

Buck carries the conversation. Somehow it leads to Lena.  _ No _ , he didn’t ‘work things out’ with her,  _ yes _ , she’s still ignoring him, mostly. 

There’s only so much ignoring that can be managed in a space shuttle. 

“Maybe you should just talk to her,” Buck offers. It’s the last thing he wants to hear. There’s no amount of talking that can make them get along. She doesn’t like him. That’s all there is, he might never know why.

“Why does everyone keep saying that,” he sighs. He presses one temple with his fingers. “It’s not like I haven’t tried. Not every problem can be solved by just ‘talking about it’.”

Buck nods, there’s an understanding to it. But he’s determined to help, even if it’s unwanted.

“You two really aren’t that different, y’know,” he says, brow raised. 

Eddie sighs, “That’s not what I need to hear right now.” He needs to vent, he doesn’t need his problems to be solved. Buck could have the answer to every problem that’s ever haunted him, and he still wouldn’t want to hear it. Not now. Not when everyone around him is stressed about his spacewalk and Lena is ready to bite his head off at any moment.

“But it’s true,” he continues. “You’re not the only person who sends videos, you know. I listen to Hen. I listen to Bobby. I even listen to Lena. Granted, she doesn’t talk too much. But still.” 

Eddie knows this, he does, but still, it’s a bitter reminder that it’s not personal. It’s a job. Nothing more. Buck helps everyone, why shouldn’t he? He’s good at it, he can ease tensions before Eddie realizes they’re there. He can listen, he can respond, always knowing the perfect string of words to bring comfort. 

But right now, he’s ready to snap, and not even Buck can talk him down.

“Can we just drop it?” he pleads. “Forget I brought it up.”

“I’m just saying, you might not be able to talk to her. But you can listen.”

He can barely comprehend the advice, he just needs to stop talking about Lena. Around her, he’s the worst version of himself, someone he thought he left on the battlefield. Distant and bitter. She’s reminiscent of every commander he wishes to forget, something icy in her glare. 

But when he steps away, it all melts. She laughs with Bobby and works smoothly with Hen, but it’s something about him that freezes her over. 

They bring out the worst in each other, and he can’t stop his frustration from seeping over to Houston.

“Just drop it, Buck,” he snaps. On the other end, Buck leans back, pushes away.

“No, I’m not dropping it,” he says. “You’re making yourself miserable by ignoring this. You can’t just ignore the problem and hope it goes away, so stop hiding and do something about it.”

He’s not yelling, but his frustration pools and mixes with Eddie’s. It’s worse than anger, it’s shattering. 

“Maybe you should take your own advice.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know, how’re things going with Maddie?”

He regrets it the moment he says it. Doesn’t matter if there’s truth to it.

It’s just like with Lena, Eddie can’t stop the angry words from spilling over. He’s bitter, and for no good reason, because Buck is right, at least partially. He has no right to spit his words, at least not at Buck.

“That’s different.”

He’s not angry at Buck, but the stress of everything builds all at once, and he just can’t seem to keep it to himself. If it were anyone else he would keep it to himself. But Buck always listens, and now he’s misusing that power. 

“Is it? I don’t know,  _ ‘maybe you should just talk to her’ _ .”

It’s too far, he’s pushed too far. He never should’ve pushed at all. 

“It’s  _ my _ job to help you,” Buck points, “not your job to try and help me.”

It stings in places it shouldn’t, the subtle confirmation of every insecurity. Buck would send messages, even if he didn’t want it. That’s his job, it’s in his nature to try and help. Eddie built a world in which Buck reached out by choice, as a friend, something personal. 

He said it in anger, but it doesn’t make it less true.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, but he can’t take back the bitterness. It’s all he has to give, an apology, “it’s not fair of me to snap at you. You’re just doing your job, trying to help.”

“It’s not just that—”

He’s see’s Hen in his periphery, drawing closer.

“I gotta go,” he interrupts. “We both have jobs to do today.”

“Eddie—”

The screen goes dark. It’s the only time Eddie’s ever hung up. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Hen teases, but he doesn’t give. He hung up on Buck. Buck, who’s only ever shown him kindness. Buck, who’s given up endless hours of sleep just to spend an extra moment on the phone. Buck, who has only ever tried to help. He hung up on him. “C’mon, we should get to the airlock.”

“I need to apologize to him,” Eddie says, looking up to Hen.

“Yeah, you do,” she says, “but it’ll have to wait.”

He follows Hen to the airlock. She speaks, but he barely hears the words. There’s only guilt and regret.

“Eddie,” he hears, and his guilt only spikes. He relives the argument, remembers it’s source. It’s him, but he remembers the reason he snapped.

“Lena, you should be with Bobby,” he says, forcing an even tone, “Hen and I have to get ready.”

He steps into the airlock, but Hen still hovers outside. 

“You still have time,” Lena says, checking her watch just to prove a point. She crosses her arms, drifting slightly in the air, but refusing to step back.

“You know what?” Hen back away, “I’ll give you two a minute. I’ll check in with Bobby.”

Hen leaves, and Eddie sighs. He just lost his only buffer. He won’t yell at Lena, he can’t handle two arguments in a day, but the comfort of another person would still be appreciated. They’ve already proven they can’t talk without a mediator. 

“What are you doing back here?” he asks, trying to keep a neutral tone.

“I wanted to say—”

“—If you’re gonna apologize, don’t,” he interrupts, harsher than intended. He thinks about Buck, about what he said. He’s right, he can’t deny it, he’s making himself miserable. The least Eddie could do is take Buck’s advice after what he did. Talk to her. Listen. 

“I snapped at you before when I shouldn’t have. I got defensive when you said I wasn’t qualified, even though you’re right.” Lena raises her brow. He’s forcing honesty, all the insecurities he’s only ever admitted to Buck. Eddie continues, “I might be trained, but I don’t have your experience.” He calls back to an old video, an old moment of truth, “I really have no idea what I’m doing.”

She tilts her head in surprise, the slightest of smiles tracing her face. It’s almost a bridge, almost an apology. “Wasn’t going to apologize. But thanks for that.”

“Then what did you come back here for.”

“Well you would  _ know  _ if you could stop interrupting me for a minute here,” she says, pausing for emphasis, voice still lighter than he’s ever heard from her. There’s still hope of avoiding an argument. “What I wanted to say was—”

“Guys,” Bobby says through the radio, earpieces hissing, cutting her off.

“You’re kidding me,” Lena sighs, looking up to the ceiling, throwing her hands.

“We’ve got a problem.”

Never a good thing to hear in space. The last time Bobby said that, there was a fire (the smoke still lingers in the main cabin).

“Is it the kind of problem that can be ignored for a few minutes?” Lena asks. “Because we’re kind of in the middle of something back here.”

She leans back against the wall, opposite to Eddie. He presses two fingers to his ear, waiting for a response.

“We’ve got a potential leak.”

“What do you mean ‘potential leak’, it’s either leaking or it isn’t,” she says, patience running thin. She’s determined, if she came here to talk to Eddie, she’s not leaving until she talks to Eddie regardless of any interruptions.

“The cooling system’s down. It runs on—”

“—Ammonia,” Eddie finishes. Poisonous gas. Not good. Who engineers a system that runs on poison? “If it’s busted we’ll have—”

“—A major gas leak,” Lena ends. It’s the most in-sync they’ve ever been, he’s almost proud.

Lena lunges past him and smashes the button on the airlock. The doors pull shut, locking them inside with their space suits and tool kit, everything they need for the spacewalk.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, would you rather die of ammonia poisoning?” Lena quips. “It’s called the airlock for a reason. If there’s a leak, it won’t get in here.” Quick thinking. 

“It seems to be isolated to the main cabin,” Bobby says. “Hen and I are locked in the habitation module, the other crews are already secure.” They’re not the only ones on the shuttle, it’s not just NASA controlling the ISS. There’s Russian crews aboard as well, there’s a reason he (sort of) learned Russian in training. “I’ve contacted mission control, we’re waiting for further instruction.”

He watches Lena tap the walls of the airlock, waiting. Her frustration radiates as bright as his, and Buck’s words echo back to him. 

_ You two really aren’t that different, y’know. _

The last person he had a real argument with was Shannon, fighting fire with fire. Not afraid to yell or point harsh words. Feelings first, apologies later. Rinse and repeat, never break the cycle. 

Lena’s not a fire, she’s chilling, she’s the ice. Distant, biting, but not spreading. She speaks the truth, not to hurt, but simply to reveal. Eddie looks into the reflection of the ice and sees himself. Their personalities, their strategies, are not as different as Eddie once thought. 

The fire melts the ice. The ice cools the flame. There’s an odd balance he’ll have to thank Buck for exposing. 

“We need to check if there’s actually a leak or not,” Lena says. Eddie nods along.

“We can’t check without exposing ourselves,” Bobby says. “It might not be leaking now, but with the cooling system down, it’ll leak eventually. Everyone needs to stay in position.”

“We can’t wait around and just hope it  _ doesn’t  _ leak,” Hen cuts in. “We need to  _ do _ something.” 

Eddie leans his head back against the wall, waiting for a clear answer that may never come.

Bobby sighs. “The only way to fix the cooling system is from outside the shuttle.”

He says it as if it’s a problem, when it might be the solution. It’s better to be outside the shuttle than inside if there’s a gas leak, really. 

“I can do it. I’ll go outside,” Eddie says. Lena squints and turns her head. He directs his response to her. “We already had a spacewalk planned, we’ll just change objectives. Get out, fix the leak, come back. We’ll reschedule the original spacewalk.”

“I’m in,” Lena says. Eddie scrunches his face in confusion.

“You’re a pilot, not a mission specialist. This isn’t your job.”

“There’s no way you’re going on your first spacewalk alone.” She pushes off the wall, stepping towards him. “I don’t care if it’s not my job.”

Weeks of silent treatment, bitterness, and needless arguments, yet she still volunteered to help. Despite the hatred, however surface level, she’s reaching. If their jobs were reversed, he’d do the same, without question. 

It’s her job to be a pilot, but still, she reaches. 

It’s Buck’s job to talk, but still, he reaches further. 

It’s beyond their assignments, but they’re both still there for Eddie in the moments where it mattered. 

She’s not apologizing, wouldn’t expect her to, but it’s a peace offering of sorts. 

He nods, a silent  _ thank you _ sitting in the air between them.

“Did Houston respond yet?” she asks after a moment. 

“No, standing by.”

The radios go silent, they can only plan so far before needing approval from mission control. 

They stand still, the shuttle’s never stood so quietly before. It’s an edge he can’t cut, a tension that spills over, and he wishes, once again, he could call Buck to break it. 

Lena shatters it instead. 

“Earlier. Before Bobby interrupted—”

“—You wanna finish that conversation now?” 

“Oh will you shut up and let me talk,” she gestures. He waves for her to talk, pushing off the wall to meet her in the middle. “I wanted to say,” she pauses, as if waiting for another interruption, “it wasn’t fair of me to read all about you in your file and expect you to be on even footing. You don’t know anything about me, but that’s my fault, not yours.” 

“Almost sounds like an apology,” he says. The tension falls just as quickly as it rose. 

“Not an apology,” she points. “I don’t regret calling you a cheap replacement, that was funny.”

“I accept your not-apology,” Eddie smiles. 

Lena sighs, “I’ll accept yours too.” She extends a hand, calling a truce. He’s quick to reach out and shake it. It’s not perfect, but it’s no longer laced in anger. 

“That was really nice to hear and all,” Hen says through the radio. Neither of them were muted, the whole crew heard their non-apologies. If their lives weren’t endangered, he’d laugh, “But we’ve got another problem.”

“Can’t be worse than ammonia poisoning, right?” he offers.  _ Please don’t be another space fire.  _

“We’ve lost contact with Houston,” she breathes, “we’re alone up here.”

**Author's Note:**

> more relationships/tags may be added as the story progresses. number of total chapters may also vary.
> 
> follow me on tumblr (@maysgrant) for future updates.


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